LOVE-LETTERS 


OF  A 


WORLDLY  WOMAN 


BY 

MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "  MRS.  KEITH'S  CRIME  "  ETC. 


'  Wherefore  ?    Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement ' 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 
1892 


PREFACE 


2, 


THESE  be  three  women  who  loved  the 
world  :  not  meaning  (at  least  two  of  them) 
the  pomps  and  vanities,  but  the  round  world 
itself  and  the  people  who  belong  to  it.  All 
had  the  bandage  lifted  from  their  eyes,  and 
as  they  became  wise  proved  how  sad  a  thing 
is  wisdom.  The  first  tried  to  comfort  herself 
with  dreams ;  and  waits  hoping  that  they  will 
find  their  way  into  the  waking-hours.  The 
second  played  an  eager,  restless  game,  staking 
all  her  happiness  on  it ;  and  perhaps  gained 
most  when  she  had  lost  it.  The  third  looked 
up  at  sorrow,  and,  seeing  a  little  way  beyond, 
set  out  on  a  journey ;  but  she  does  not  know 
yet  where  it  will  end.  And  the  moral  is — but 
morals  are  depressing  even  if  they  are  edify- 
ing :  let  us  leave  them  to  the  Preacher. 

L.  C. 


433567 


CONTENTS 


A  MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE i 

LOVE   LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN   .     .     45 
ON  THE  WANE   .  .  229 


A  MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE 


SHE. — ON    THE    DULNESS    OF    GOODNESS 

>T  is  a  long  time  since  we  met — 
long,  that  is,  as  we  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  measuring  time 
lately — nearly  a  month.  Two 
months  and  meeting  every  day, 
often  twice  a  day,  but  never  missing  once ; 
then  a  little  pause,  a  flagging,  a  going-to- 
town,  and  two  days  apart — days  that  were 
hard  to  bear  for  both  of  us  ;  then  a  week, 
and  now  a  fortnight.  At  first  your  letters 
compensated  me;  now  they  do  not.  Are 
they  colder  ?  I  do  not  know.  Not  in  words, 
perhaps,  but  they  do  not  send  a  rush  of 
joy  through  me  as  they  did  a  little  while 
since.  They  seem  to  come  from  your  intel- 


2  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

lect,  your  good- nature,  that  would  not  like 
me  to  feel  neglected,  your  affectionate  dis- 
position, not  from  your  heart.  Are  you  be- 
ginning to  turn  restive,  to  think  things  over, 
to  wonder  how  it  was  we  found  the  past  so 
sweet  that  we  were  content  to  spend  whole 
days  by  the  river-side,  talking  the  driftless, 
dreamy  talk  of  happiness,  or  silently  watch- 
ing the  river  as  it  went  on,  seeking,  per- 
haps, the  place  which  a  little  later  our  feet 
would  know — but  not  together  ? 

I  remember  your  telling  me  once — was  it 
with  dim  foreboding  of  a  future  that  now, 
perhaps,  draws  near?  —  that  women  took 
things  more  seriously  than  men.  They  are 
the  foolish  women.  I  am  going  to  be  wise 
— to  remember  as  long  as  you  remember, 
and  forget  as  soon.  I  think  I  am  doing  so 
already — if  you  are.  Why  should  man,  who 
is  strong,  always  get  the  best  of  it,  and  be 
forgiven  so  much  ;  and  woman,  who  is  weak, 
get  the  worst  and  be  forgiven  so  little  ?  Why 
should  you  go  and  laugh  and  be  merry,  and 
I  stay  waiting  and  listening  ?  But  this  shall 
not  be,  for  I  am  not  the  woman  to  sit  and 
weep  while  the  world  is  wide  and  the  days 
are  long,  and  there  are  many  to — to  love  me  ? 
I  do  not  know :  to  come  and  make  a  sweet 
pretence  of  love ;  and  who  shall  say  how 


A    MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  3 

much  or  how  little  heart  will  be  in  it  ?  It  is 
delightful  to  be  a  woman — yes,  even  in  spite 
of  all  things  ;  but  to  be  a  weak  woman,  and 
good  with  the  goodness  invented  for  her  by 
men  who  will  have  none  of  it  themselves ; 
no,  thank  you.  It  is  a  sad  mistake  to  take 
things  seriously,  especially  for  women  (which 
sounds  like  a  quotation  from  Byron,  and  is 
almost),  but  it  is  a  mistake  that  shall  not  be 
mine.  Let  us  keep  to  the  surface  of  all 
things,  to  the  to-day  in  which  we  live,  for- 
getting the  yesterdays,  not  dreaming  of  to- 
morrows. The  froth  of  the  waves,  the  green 
meadows,  and  the  happy  folk  walking  across 
them  laughing;  the  whole  world  as  it  faces 
the  sky :  beneath  are  only  the  deep  waters, 
the  black  earth,  the  people  sorrowing  in 
their  houses,  the  dead  sleeping  in  their 
graves.  What  have  we  who  would  laugh 
in  common  with  these  ?  Nothing. 

Dear,  your  letters  have  grown  too  critical, 
too  intellectually  admiring.  You  said  in  one 
of  them  last  week  that  you  reverenced  me 
for  my  goodness.  I  do  not  want  reverence  ; 
it  goes  to  passion's  funeral.  And  I  do  not 
want  to  be  good  either,  for  that  means  a 
person  knowing  all  her  own  possibilities  and 
limits.  It  is  only  of  the  base  and  mean 
things  that  one  should  know  one's  self  utter- 


4  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

ly  incapable  ;  for  the  rest  it  is  better  to  give 
one's  nature  its  fling,  and  let  it  make  a  walk 
for  itself,  good  or  bad,  as  its  strength  goes. 
Good  !  Oh,  but  I  am  glad  to  be  far  from 
that  goal.  No  woman  who  is  absolutely 
and  entirely  good,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  word,  gets  a  man's  most  fervent,  pas- 
sionate love,  the  love  beside  which  all  other 
feelings  pale.  A  wear-and-tear  affection, 
perhaps,  tideless  and  dull,  may  be  her  por- 
tion, but  it  is  not  for  good  women  that  men 
have  fought  battles,  given  their  lives,  and 
staked  their  souls.  To  be  good,  to  know 
beforehand  that,  under  any  given  circum- 
stances, one  would  do  the  right  thing,  would 
stalk  along  the  higher  path  of  moral  recti- 
tude, forever  remembering  and  caring  above 
all  things  for  one's  own  superiority,  while 
the  rest  of  the  world  might  suffer  what  it 
would  ;  it  appals  me  to  think  of  it.  Besides, 
how  deadly  dull  to  herself  must  the  good 
woman  be,  how  limited  her  imagination, 
how  sober  her  horizon  ;  she  knows  her  own 
future  so  well  there  is  little  wonder  that  she 
grows  dowdy,  living  it.  To  feel  that  there 
is  no  unexpectedness  in  her  nature,  nothing 
over  which  to  hold  a  rein,  to  know  that  no 
moment  can  come  when,  forgetting  all  else, 
she  will  give  herself  up  to  the  whirlwind 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  5 

that  may  overtake  her  in  a  dozen  forms, 
and  then,  if  need  be,  pay  the  price  without 
flinching  and  without  tears.  For  tears  and 
repentance  and  reformations  are  all  the  ac- 
companiments of  goodness  that  once  in  its 
weakness  is  overcome.  How  I  loathe  them 
and  the  expiation  with  which  some  women 
would  bleach  their  souls.  Did  you  ever  stop 
to  think  what  expiation  means  ?  Probably 
some  monkish- minded  ancestor  who  was 
addicted  to  scourging  himself  putting  his 
ghostly  finger  across  one's  brain,  and  so 
waving  his  torturing  lash  down  through  the 
ages.  Give  me,  then,  the  strength  to  raise 
my  head  and  say,  "  Yes,  it  was  I,  and  I  will 
pay  the  price  cheerfully,  for  the  joy  of  re- 
membering will  sustain  me  to  the  end,  and 
repentance  I  have  none." 

I  wonder  if  husbands  are  so  often  un- 
faithful because  their  wives  are  good?  I 
think  so.  They  cannot  stand  the  dreary  mo- 
notonies and  certainties.  They  give  them  af- 
fection and  reverence — and  go  to  the  women 
who  are  less  good,  and  love  them.  I  won- 
der if  the  wholly  good  men  are  the  best 
loved  ?  Not  they.  They,  too,  like  the  good 
women,  are  treated  to  the  even  way  of  dull 
affection.  The  bravest  men,  the  strongest, 
the  most  capable  to  do  great  deeds  when 


6  A    MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

the  chance  comes,  and  of  waiting  for  the 
chances  as  best  they  can  :  they  are  the  best 
loved.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  mystery  that  lies 
in  people  as  in  fate  that  is  the  fascination — 
the  wondering,  the  toss-up  whether  it  will 
be  good  or  bad  to  us  or  to  others.  For 
this  makes  life  keen  living  and  love  a  des- 
perate joy.  It  is  so  with  the  whole  of  hu- 
manity. Say  what  we  will  for  goodness — 
and  in  the  abstract  it  is  the  soul's  desire 
of  most  of  us — the  world  would  be  a  dull 
place  to  live  in  if  all  the  wickedness  were 
stamped  out ;  too  dull  to  satisfy  mortal 
men  and  women.  We  may  owe  our  solid 
happiness  to  the  good,  but  we  owe  life's 
color  and  variety  and  excitement  to  the 
wicked  :  never  let  us  underrate  them.  Are 
you  shocked,  cher  ami?  But  in  these  latter 
days  we  have  taken  to  writing  sermons  to 
each  other.  Mine,  at  least,  has  the  advan- 
tage of  being  genuine.  If  it  does  not  please 
you  I  cannot  help  it.  I  would  not  have  you 
even  always  pleased,  for  it  would  bore  me 
sadly.  You  asked  me  once  (do  you  remem- 
ber, the  long  grass  was  dipping  in  the  river, 
and  I  watched  it  while  you  spoke),  "  if  I 
would  always  be  the  same  ?"  I  answered, 
Yes — untruthfully  enough,  but  I  could  not 
help  it.  Would  I  have  you  always  the  same? 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  7 

I  ask  myself,  as  I  sit  here ;  and  the  answer 
comes  to  my  lips  quickly,  Not  I.  Hot  and 
cold,  a  stir  to  one's  pulse,  a  chill  to  one's 
heart,  a  formal  word  that  makes  one's  lips 
close  as  though  ice  had  frozen  them,  a  whis- 
per that  sets  one's  blood  tingling  with  sud- 
den joy.  All  this  is  life  and  love,  not  vege- 
tation and  affection. 

Don't  think  I  do  not  long  after  good 
things.  Oh,  my  dear,  do  we  not  all  long 
after  them,  and  so  sanctify  our  souls,  that 
are  not  able  to  do  more  ?  It  is  so  easy  to 
sit  at  the  base  of  a  tower  and  wish  we  stood 
on  the  top ;  it  is  another  thing  to  climb  it 
little  step  by  little  step.  If  one  could  be 
hauled  up  in  some  strange  dangerous  fash- 
ion it  would  be  worth  doing,  though  one 
risked  one's  neck  by  the  way.  So  if  by  a 
few  great  deeds  one  could  reach  the  heights, 
who  that  has  any  fire  in  his  soul  would  not 
do  them,  though  they  crushed  the  life  out 
of  him  for  a  time — nay,  though  he  died  by 
the  way  ?  But  the  unvarying  goodness  of 
daily  life,  one  day  as  like  another  as  one 
step  is  like  another ;  and  the  getting  to  the 
top  of  one's  moral  plateau  at  last — for  what  ? 
For  some  abstract  praise,  some  measured 
admiration,  while  those  one  loved  best  felt 
most  one's  far-offness  from  themselves.  It 


8  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

would  be  like  the  chilly  tower-top,  standing 
there  alone,  the  wind  sweeping  past,  the 
world  below  going  merrily  by  unheeding. 
Is  it  worth  it  ?  No.  Preach  no  more  of 
goodness  to  me  ;  and  as  for  reverence,  keep 
it  for  the  saints. 

You  have  provoked  all  this  from  me  with 
your  dreary,  unsatisfying  letter,  and  your 
half-finished  sentence,  "  And  in  the  future  " 
—  Why  did  you  stop?  Did  you  fear  to 
go  on  ?  Well,  and  in  the  future  ?  Do  you 
think  any  woman  will  love  you  as  I  have 
loved  you ;  will  forget  you  as  completely  as 
I  will  forget  if  I  choose  ;  will  scorn  you  as 
well  if  it  comes  to  it ;  will  be  as  constant  or 
as  fickle,  as  passionate  or  as  cold  ?  It  may 
be ;  but  I  think  not,  for  my  strange  heart  is 
given  to  the  Fates  to  wring  with  what  agony 
they  will,  or  to  fill  to  the  brim  with  joy,  and 
out  of  either  I  can  give  lavishly. 

Do  you  understand  me  ?  I  doubt  it.  I 
stand  here  by  the  gate  of  many  things,  won- 
dering if  the  latch  shall  be  left  up — or  down 
forever.  For  when  the  summer-day  is  done 
the  twilight  comes,  sweet  enough  for  the 
dawdlers  who  would  sit  and  dream  alone, 
but  not  for  me  with  the  wild  blood  dancing 
through  my  veins.  Draw  down  the  blinds, 
say  I,  and  bring  the  flaring  lights;  the 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  9 

guests  of  the  day  may  go,  but  the  guests  of 
the  night  will  come — ready  to  begin  what 
perhaps  you  are  ready  to  end.  In  the  be- 
ginning are  life  and  promise  and  love ;  but 
in  the  end  ?  In  the  end  one  lies  down  to 
die — and  forget.  Good-bye. 


II 

HE. — AN    OFFER   OF   MARRIAGE 

|Y  DEAREST  GIRL,  — You 
know  I  never  comprehend  your 
letters ;  but  perhaps  that  is 

one  reason  wnv  I  like  tnem- 
I  never  altogether  comprehend 
you,  which  is  also  perhaps  the  reason  why 
I  love  you,  for  I  do,  upon  my  soul  I  do, 
in  spite  of  the  nonsense  you  talk  about 
affection  and  vegetation  and  wickedness, 
and  the  rest  of  it.  I  sometimes  feel  as 
if  you  had  taken  me  for  some  one  else 
when  I  read  your  letters — some  one  you  had 
set  up  and  thought  to  be  me.  It's  odd, 
but  I  used  to  have  the  same  sort  of  feeling 
in  the  summer,  when  you  seemed  to  see 
from  one  direction  and  I  from  another.  I 
don't  want  you  to  make  that  kind  of  mis- 
take, dearest;  it  would  be  a  bad  lookout 
for  me  if  you  did.  Now,  let  us  speak  plainly, 
have  things  out,  and  be  done  with  it ;  then 
it  will  be  plain  sailing,  and  we  shall  both  be 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  II 

better  for  it  —  better,  anyhow,  than  if  we 
went  on  with  fine  words  and  vague  phrases 
for  a  twelvemonth. 

If  my  letters  have  been  cold  lately,  or 
seemed  so,  it  has  not  been  that  I  have  not 
cared  for  you,  or  don't,  as  much  as  during 
all  those  jolly  days  by  the  river,  when  we 
were  too  lazy  to  talk  even  about  ourselves. 
But  you  know  one  can't  be  always  at  high 
pressure;  besides,  I  am  getting  on,  and 
though  one  may  still  be  able  to  talk  non 
sense  occasionally,  and  in  the  country,  yet 
after  the  turn  of  five-and-thirty  a  man  isn't 
so  ready  to  go  on  with  it  when  he  is  once 
more  back  in  town,  among  people,  and 
planning  his  life,  as  I  am.  This  doesn't 
make  me  less  sincere,  mind ;  I  like  you 
better  than  any  one  else,  I  expect,  but  I  am 
a  good  deal  taken  up  with  other  matters. 
I  am  anxious  about  Carpeth.  K —  -  is 
certain  that  I  have  a  good  chance  of  getting 
in,  and  I  seriously  contemplate  standing.  Of 
course,  as  you  already  know,  I  don't  care  a 
straw  about  politics,  and  should  never  at- 
tempt to  talk;  still,  getting  into  Parliament 
is  a  respectable  sort  of  thing  to  try  for — un- 
less you  are  a  Radical ;  gives  you  influence 
in  the  county,  and  so  on.  Then  I  am 
bothered  about  those  beggars  and  their 


12  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

farms.  I  remember  telling  you  that  they 
wanted  their  rents  lowered,  rather  unfairly, 
I  think.  Then  my  mother  is  always  at  me 
to  settle  down — before  she  dies,  she  says, 
having  a  fancy  that  that  won't  be  long, 
though  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  it  will ;  and 
she  wants  me  to  marry  my  cousin  Nell.  I 
like  Nell  well  enough,  and  no  doubt  we 
should  jog  along  comfortably  together,  but 
I  am  much  fonder  of  you,  though  if  you 
throw  me  over  I  dare  say  I  shall  try  my 
chance  with  Nell.  So  you  see  there's  been 
some  excuse  for  pre-occupation  in  my  letters. 

In  spite  of  what  you  say  I  do  reverence 
you  for  your  goodness.  Look  what  a  brick 
you  were  to  your  brother  and  his  wife  last 
year,  and  I  know  if  you  marry  me  that  you 
will  make  me,  as  you  would  any  man  you 
loved,  a  good  and  true  wife.  Be  the  sensible 
girl  I  have  always  thought  you,  and  write 
and  say  it  is  all  right,  and  I  will  tell  the 
mater  at  once,  and  let  us  get  married  as  soon 
as  Carpeth  is  settled.  Don't  think  I  have 
ceased  to  care  for  you  because  I  don't  write 
you  sentimental  letters,  or  see  you  twice  a 
day,  as  I  did  at  Wargrave,  where  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  loaf  round  and  hang 
about  the  river  till  dinner-time. 

While  I  think  of  it,  what  I  meant  by  "  and 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  13 

in  the  future,"  was  just  in  effect  what  I  have 
said  here,  only  somehow  I  could  not  get  it 
to  the  tip  of  my  pen  then  as  I  do  now.  Of 
course  we  went  on  at  a  rapid  rate  this  sum- 
mer, but  you  see  we  were  thrown  a  good 
deal  on  each  other,  and  there's  always  some- 
thing enticing  in  the  river,  and  the  willow- 
weed,  and  the  towing-path,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  I  am  really  awfully  fond  of  you,  too, 
and  when  a  man  is  alone  with  a  woman  he 
likes,  and  nothing  particular  besides  on  his 
mind,  he  would  be  a  duffer  if  he  didn't  run 
on  a  bit.  Still,  I  am  not  a  very  romantic 
sort ;  when  I  was  two-and-twenty  I  had  rath- 
er a  quencher  with  that  girl  I  told  you  of 
once ;  she  cut  up  rough  after  playing  the 
fool  with  me  to  the  top  of  my  bent,  and  that 
has  done  its  work.  Besides,  talk  as  you  will 
about  affection,  it's  the  best  thing  to  get 
married  on  ;  blazing  passion  fizzles  out  pret- 
ty soon  and  leaves  precious  little  behind. 
It  says  a  good  deal  for  the  strength  and  gen- 
uineness of  my  feeling  for  you  that,  after  the 
speed  of  last  summer,  I  can  still  in  the  cool 
of  the  autumn  declare,  as  I  do,  that  I  am 
sincerely  fond  of  you. 

Of  course  I  know  that  if  I  am  matter-of- 
fact  you  are  the  reverse,  but  if  you  won't  be 
angry  at  my  saying  so,  I  think  that  comes 


14  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

of  the  life  you  lead.  Living  with  a  brother 
and  sister-in-law,  and  no  settled  place  in  the 
house  or  home  of  your  own,  shutting  yourself 
up  with  books,  or  stealing  off  to  some  quiet 
spot  to  read  them,  and  going  out  all  night 
when  you  are  in  town  and  being  told,  no  mat- 
ter where  you  are,  by  half  a  dozen  fellows 
that  they  are  in  love  with  you;  that  can't  be  a 
healthy  sort  of  life  for  any  woman.  You  will 
lead  a  far  better  and  more  natural  one  if 
you  settle  down  with  me,  as  I  hope  you  will. 
Now,  write  me  a  long  letter  and  tell  me 
all  that  is  in  your  heart  and  mind  about  this. 
Let  me  know  just  what  you  think,  for  I  could 
never  for  the  life  of  me  quite  make  out  what 
you  were  driving  at  when  we  were  together. 
But,  above  all,  tell  me  that  you  love  me,  as 
you  did  in  the  summer  when  you  put  your 
head  down  on  my  arm  and  yet  would  never 
say  the  plain,  honest  "  Yes  "  I  tried  to  ex- 
tract from  you.  Then  I  will  somehow  make 
time  to  run  down  on  Saturday  and  stay  till 
Monday,  as  I  long  to  do.  Good-night,  my 
dear  one. — Ever  yours. 

P.S. — Let  me  hear  by  return  if  you  can, 
for  I  have  a  good  deal  of  anxiety  one  way 
and  another,  and  shall  be  glad  to  get  this 
off  my  mind. 


Ill 

SHE. — SOME    VIEWS    ON    MARRIAGE 


ET  it  off  your  mind  by  all  means. 
I  would  not  marry  you  for  the 
world.  Marry  your  cousin  Nell, 
with  whom  you  will  jog  along 
well  enough ;  go  in  for  Carpeth  ; 
raise  or  lower  your  tenants'  rents,  and  settle 
down  to  your  uneventful  life  without  me.  It 
would  drive  me  mad.  There  is  enough  of 
nothing  in  your  heart  or  soul  to  satisfy  me. 
I  like  you ;  I  have  loved  you — perhaps  I  do 
still ;  but  marry  you — no  ;  for  I  should  surely 
run  away,  and  before  a  year  was  over,  if  it 
were  only  to  hide  in  a  dim  corner  with  amused 
eyes  to  watch  your  perplexity.  I  see  how 
good  you  are,  manly  and  straightforward — 
all  that  and  more ;  but  to  settle  down  with 
you — to  know  the  end  of  my  days  almost  as 
well  as  the  beginning;  to  live  through  the 
long,  dull,  respectable  years  with  you — no, 
thank  you.  You  must  marry  your  cousin 


l6  A   MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE 

Nell ;  and  I,  if  I  marry  at  all,  will  marry  a 
man  whose  future  is  not  unrolled,  like  yours, 
before  my  eyes — some  one  who  has  it  in  him 
to  leave  the  world  richer  than  he  found  it, 
who  will  teach  it,  or  beautify  it,  or  make  it 
in  some  way  better  because  he  has  been. 
For  men  who  do  this  are  the  masters  of  the 
world,  and  men  like  you,  rich  or  fairly  rich, 
good,  plodding,  and  painstaking,  are  their 
servants.  They  enjoy  your  acres,  which  you 
keep  trim  for  them ;  your  houses,  the  doors 
of  which  open  wide  to  receive  them;  and 
they  pay  you  wages  in  the  shape  of  benefits 
you  get  from  their  genius.  Yes,  you  will 
marry  your  cousin  Nell,  go  into  Parliament, 
helping  your  country  with  vote  or  presence 
— for  that  is  how,  as  you  indicate,  your  po- 
litical capacity  will  be  bounded  ;  you  will  en- 
joy your  easy-going  life,  and  die  when  your 
turn  conies.  You  will  do  no  work  that  oth- 
ers could  not  do  equally  well,  and  never  fret 
or  fire  your  soul  with  more  than  a  little  anx- 
iety, a  little  fatigue  or  vexation ;  and  even 
these  will  calm  down  or  be  forgotten  with 
your  first  spoonful  of  soup  at  dinner — your 
dull,  well-mannered  dinner  of  five  courses, 
with  the  salad  and  the  savory  left  out.  Oh, 
my  dear,  whom  I  loved  through  all  the  long, 
still  days  of  this  past  summer,  what  a  revela- 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  I/ 

tion  your  letters  have  been  to  me.  I  should 
go  mad  if  I  married  you.  No ;  if  I  marry  at 
all,  it  must  be  some  one  who  works — works 
truly,  not  for  himself  and  for  his  own  posi- 
tion or  respectability's  sake,  but  for  the 
work's  sake  and  the  world's  sake  ;  a  man 
who  is  part  of  the  great  machinery  that 
models  the  future  ages ;  not  a  mere  idler  by 
its  wheels,  hanging  about,  amusing  himself 
for  his  day,  dying  when  his  turn  comes,  and 
leaving  no  trace  behind.  There  are  crowds 
of  these,  well  enough  in  their  way,  with  their 
cheery  voices  and  pleasant  faces  ;  let  other 
women  marry  them.  The  world  would  be  a 
terrible  place  if  it  were  made  up  entirely  of 
the  minority  towards  which  my  soul  leans. 
There  would  be  all  to  work,  but  none  to 
work  for;  all  to  give,  and  none  to  receive. 
Yes,  the  world  is  well  for  the  like  of  you, 
for  the  majority  that  takes  life  easily,  bat- 
tling a  little  for  itself  and  its  own,  leaving 
the  workers  to  build  up  the  world ;  but  it 
is  to  these  last  that  my  heart  goes  out.  A 
soldier  who  has  fought  for  his  own  land,  and 
so  helped  its  people ;  a  thinker  who,  unseen 
himself,  has  swayed  vast  numbers ;  a  law- 
giver who  has  devised  the  codes  by  which 
coming  races  may  guide  themselves ;  a  trav- 
eller who  makes  the  first  lonely  track  into  the 


1 8  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

unknown  land,  and  then  comes  back  to  direct 
the  road-makers  how  to  work  on  towards  the 
great  city  that,  but  for  him,  would  have  been 
unsuspected— any  one  of  these  holds  in  his 
hand  the  seed  of  immortality. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  leaders  who  have 
it.  The  poet  who  writes,  and  the  singer  who 
sings,  the  words  the  soldiers  hear  as  they 
march  by;  the  beggar  who  sits  starving  in 
his  garret,  all  the  while  creating  that  for 
which  the  whole  world  will  rejoice,  though  he 
dies  or  goes  into  the  crowd  not  knowing, 
letting  others  get  the  reward  of  his  work; 
the  martyr  who  keeps  his  lips  shut  and  will 
not  cry  out  lest  others  should  lose  heart;  all 
these,  too — these  are  the  masters  who  prove 
that  greatness  is  a  thing  that  must  be  put 
outside  one's  self  to  live.  With  one  of  these 
there  would  be  life  with  its  promises  and 
possibilities,  a  chance  to  help,  though  it  were 
only  by  serving  the  worker  as  his  servant. 
Bitter  grief,  keen  disappointment,  throbbing 
pain  might  come;  what  then  ?  It  is  for  their 
alternatives  one  makes,  and  what  chance  of 
them  would  there  be  along  your  monotonous 
way  ?  And  with  all  my  longings  and  ambi- 
tions, and  all  that  they  would  mean,  would 
the  pleasant  friendships  that  some  men  give 
their  wives,  that  you  in  fact  offer  me,  suffice  ? 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  19 

And  the  realities  of  your  life,  would  they  sat- 
isfy me  ?  Not  quite.  I  should  go  away.  I 
remember  being  told  of  a  woman  who  said 
she  would  rather  have  the  one  true  passion- 
ate devotion  of  the  worst  man  that  ever  lived, 
than  all  the  affection  and  respect  and  re- 
gard— but  these  only — that  the  best  could 
give.  I  did  not  understand  her  then.  I  do 
now.  For  the  first  has  in  him  the  fire  that 
may  any  day  leap  upward ;  but  the  other  has 
only  an  even  light  by  which  .one  would  see 
to  everlastingly  measure  and  excuse  him. 
Beside  the  first  one  might  walk  through  hell 
unheeding  its  flames;  beside  the  last  heaven 
itself  would  be  monotonous.  This  is  what  1 
meant  in  scoffing  at  goodness ;  what  I  mean 
now  in  turning,  almost  with  a  shudder,  from 
the  idea  of  being  your  wife,  even  though  I 
still  have  some  lingering  love  for  you.  The 
boundaries  of  goodness  are  known  well 
enough,  but  in  the  bare  possibilities  of  their 
being  broken  down  there  is  a  strange  uncer- 
tain vista  that  fascinates  me.  It  is  the  un- 
known quantities,  the  mysteries,  that  set  one 
thinking  and  make  one  eager.  Is  not  the 
world  itself  round,  so  that  we  see  but  a  little 
way  ahead  ?  How  then  can  you  expect  me 
to  accept  my  portion  of  it  so  flattened  and 
laid  out  before  me  that  I  can  almost  see  the 


20  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

whiteness  of  my  own  tombstone  at  the  other 
end  ?  No,  let  us  end  it  all.  Go  to  your  life  ; 
leave  me  to  mine. 

Marriage  between  us  is  not  possible.  A 
service  might  be  read  over  us,  one  roof  might 
cover  us,  one  name  identify  us ,  but  this 
would  not  be  marriage — only  a  binding  to- 
gether by  a  ceremony  made  for  those  not 
strong  enough  to  stand  by  each  other  with- 
out it,  which,  in  the  eyes  of  the  outer  world, 
would  make  us  man  and  wife,  yet  in  our  own 
hearts  leave  us  miles  apart.  The  most 
dreamy  of  relationships  might  be  marriage 
rather  than  this ;  nay,  I  can  imagine  it  ex- 
isting between  two  people  who  meet  but 
half  a  dozen  times  in  their  lives,  who  nev- 
er touch  hands,  who  but  dimly  remember 
each  other's  faces,  and  yet  whose  hearts  and 
souls  steal  out  in  the  silence  towards  each 
other  and  meet  in  some  strange  fashion  not 
known  to  ordinary  men  and  women — an  ach- 
ing, almost  passionate  love,  that  has  nothing 
physical  in  it,  and  that  seeks  no  human  sym- 
bol for  expression  save  that  which  puts  it- 
self forth  in  their  work.  Even  this  would 
satisfy  me  better  than  what  you  offer  me,  in 
which  there  would  be  the  ever  longing  for 
more  than  you  could  even  comprehend.  And 
yet  it  would  not  satisfy  me.  I  am  not  ideal- 


A   MODERN    CORRESPONDENCE  21 

1st  enough,  nor  poet  neither.  I  am  a  woman, 
and  alive  to  my  finger  ends ;  and,  if  I  am 
loved  at  all,  would  be  loved  wholly  and  alto- 
gether, as  a  man  who  is  alive,  too,  and  part 
of  the  living  world,  knows  how  to  love.  I 
want  a  face  that  satisfies  me  to  look  at,  a 
voice  to  hear,  a  hand  to  grip,  a  firm  and  even 
footstep  to  listen  to  unconsciously  as  an  ac- 
companiment to  our  talk  while  we  go  through 
the  streets  together.  I  cannot  help  caring 
for  these  things,  for  I  am  human,  and  have 
the  longings  of  human  womanhood.  But 
there  are  other  longings,  too — longings  that 
lift  the  human  ones  up,  and  give  them  the 
idealism  that  is  necessary  to  one's  soul's 
salvation  ;  and  these  last  hang  on  the  first : 
they  are  all  inseparable. 

I  have  written  on,  never  once  considering 
how  it  may  hurt  you.  It  is  better,  perhaps, 
if  I  do  hurt  you,  for  some  wounds  must  be 
seared  in  order  that  they  may  be  healed. 
Insulting,  heartless,  cruel,  some  dolts  who 
saw  this  letter  might  call  me;  but  I  am  none 
of  these.  I  have  spoken  out  fearlessly  all 
that  was  in  my  heart  and  mind,  as  you  wished 
me  to  do.  I  might  have  been  more  gentle, 
have  used  words  less  plain,  and  so  nourished 
my  own  vanity  on  your  regrets  at  losing  me. 
And  heartless  ?  no.  If  I  were,  I  should  be 


22  A  MODERN    CORRESPONDENCE 

content  to  take  ease  and  comfort  and  the 
world's  goods,  all  of  which  you  would  give 
me  for  my  portion,  and  concern  myself  about 
little  else ;  should  be  content  with  the  simple 
affection  you  offer  me  instead  of  pushing  it 
away,  because  my  hungry  heart  needs  more. 
We  had  our  summer  day,  dear,  and  it  was 
good  to  live  through ;  but  now,  go  to  your 
cousin  Nell,  contest  Carpeth,  see  to  your 
tenants,  and  good-bye.  Yes,  good-bye,  dear 
Englishman  ;  only  our  own  land  could  have 
produced  you ;  and  in  a  measure  I  am  proud 
of  you,  as  I  am  of  all  its  other  goodly  prod- 
ucts. But  for  warmth  and  sunshine  one 
goes  to  other  lands  than  ours;  for  love  and 
happiness  I,  at  least,  must  go  to  other  heart 
than  yours.  Better  for  you  that  it  is  so,  for 
I  should  have  tried  you  sorely. 


IV 

HE. — EXPOSTULATING 

REALLY  don't  know  how  to 
answer  your  letter,  for  of  course 
I  am  going  to  answer  it;  it's 
odder  than  ever,  more  than 
ever  like  you,  my  darling.  You 
are  not  very  polite,  are  you?  But  perhaps 
I  am  not  either,  for  the  matter  of  that. 
For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  understand  you, 
can't  make  out  what  you  are  driving  at, 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  you  know  your- 
self. You  say  that  you  love  me ;  then  why 
on  earth  can't  you  be  content  to  marry 
me  ?  I  love  you,  I  am  very  fond  of  you, 
though  I  won't  pretend  that  I  can  go  at 
the  rate  you  seem  to  desire ;  but,  as  I 
said  in  my  last  letter,  passion  soon  fizzles 
out.  Romance  is  all  very  well  when  you 
are  young,  but  middle- age  is  a  time  that 
most  of  us  come  to,  and  then  what's  to  be- 
come of  it?  As  for  life  with  me  being  so 


24  A    MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

dull,  we  can't  be  always  going  in  for  excite- 
ment ;  but  you  would  get  enough  of  it,  I 
expect,  and  you  could  make  yourself  prom- 
inent in  lots  of  ways  if  you  wished  to  do 
so.  I  would  do  anything  in  reason  to  make 
you  happy,  or  to  please  you  as  far  as  I 
could.  If  you  want  change  and  movement 
and  new  experiences,  we  might  go  about  a 
good  bit.  I  remember  your  saying  in  the 
summer-time  that  you  would  like  to  travel. 
We  might  go  and  look  up  some  scenery  in 
Italy  or  Switzerland,  or  if  you  wanted  any- 
thing more  extensive  take  a  run  over  to 
America,  though  I  don't  expect  you  would 
find  that  very  exhilarating,  and  I  never 
cared  for  republics  myself.  Even  Paris  is 
spoilt  by  going  in  for  democracy  and  that 
sort  of  thing. 

I  think  you  are  vexed  with  me  because  I 
told  you  frankly  that  if  you  would  not  have 
me  I  should  try  my  luck  with  Nell.  But 
you  can't  expect  me  to  keep  single  because 
you  don't  think  me  lively  enough  to  marry 
yourself.  I  am  getting  on,  thirty-six  next 
January,  quite  time  that  I  settled  down ;  I 
feel  that  I  ought  to  do  so ;  besides,  if  I  wait 
too  long  no  one  will  have  me.  Of  course  it 
is  easy  enough  to  talk  as  you  do,  but  take 
my  word  for  it,  your  feelings  are  not  what  is 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  25 

wanted  for  daily  life.  They  are  all  very 
well  in  the  books  you  have  got  yourself  into 
the  habit  of  reading,  but  they  won't  work 
outside  the  covers  in  which  you  find  them. 
I  don't  believe  in  Darwin,  as  you  know — not 
that  I  ever  read  much  of  him,  I  confess,  but 
I  made  out  what  he  was  up  to  pretty  well — 
and  I  never  read  but  one  of  Zola's  novels ; 
and  as  that  was  a  translation,  I  take  it  for 
granted  the  color  was  a  good  deal  toned 
down,  but  it  was  quite  sufficient  to  convince 
me  that  women  did  well  not  to  read  him  at 
all.  I  say  this  because  bits  in  your  letter 
sound  like  the  talk  one  hears  among  the 
prigs  whom  it  is  the  correct  thing  to  meet 
at  some  houses  nowadays,  or  the  articles 
one  sees  in  the  heavy  reviews.  Not  that  I 
ever  talk  much  to  the  first  or  read  the  last 
—  know  better  than  that,  my  darling.  I 
prefer  being  on  the  river  with  you.  But 
one  can't  help  knowing  what's  in  the  air, 
and  it  all  somehow  harks  back  to  Darwin 
and  Zola,  two  schools,  or  whatever  you  call 
them,  that  seem  to  be  running  neck  and 
neck  just  now  among  the  people  who  go  in 
for  thinking.  But  they  come  to  no  good, 
dearest;  they  have  only  made  you  want 
some  artificial  kind  of  career.  Now,  it's 
my  opinion  that  a  woman  ought  to  find  the 


26  A  MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

life  of  her  home  and  the  companionship  of 
her  husband,  and  later  on  of  her  children, 
sufficient,  and  that's  what  most  sensible  men 
think,  too.  Centent  yourself  with  them,  my 
clear  one,  and  gives  yourself  to  me  with  a 
light  heart.  You  shall  indulge  in  as  many 
fancies  as  you  please,  and  have  as  much 
amusement  as  I*  can  reasonably  give  you, 
and  we  will  do  a  whole  lot  of  going  about 
from  first  to  last  if  you  like. 

Of  course  I  have  got  some  acres  and 
must  look  after  them,  if  it  is  only  to  keep 
them  trim,  as  you  say,  for  the  beggars  you 
call  my  masters ;  and  as  for  fighting,  or  in- 
venting things,  or  writing  books,  none  of 
these  is  in  my  line,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  A 
nice  comfortable  life,  enough  money,  and  a 
good  digestion  have  fallen  to  my  share,  and 
I  am  quite  content  with  it;  if  you  fall  to 
my  share,  too,  I  shall  have  nothing  else  to 
wish  for,  after  I  have  secured  Carpeth. 

I  cannot  think  what  has  changed  you  all 
of  a  sudden,  for  we  got  on  so  well  in  the 
summer,  and  we  managed  to  get  awfully 
fond  of  each  other,  or  I  did  of  you,  and  you 
at  any  rate  were  happy  enough  with  me. 
Be  happy  again,  my  darling ;  as  I  said  in 
my  last  letter  I  say  again  in  this  :  I  love  you 
better  than  any  one  else,  though  I  own  I 


A  MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  27 

shall  try  and  win  Nell  if  you  throw  me  over. 
But  don't,  I  implore  you,  just  for  the  sake 
of  all  that  you  have  lately  taken  to  dream 
about,  give  away  realities.  Life  isn't  a  thing 
that  comes  to  us  more  than  once — in  this 
world,  anyhow — or  that  lasts  too  long,  and 
it's  a  pity  not  to  make  the  best  of  it ;  I 
don't  think  that  you  would  make  the  worst 
of  it  by  giving  yourself  to  me.  Now  write 
me  another  of  your  queer  letters  if  you  like, 
and  say  not  only  that  you  love  me,  but  that 
you'll  marry  me.  You  can't  think  how  hap- 
py you  would  make  me,  and  I  won't  believe 
you  were  playing  fast  and  loose  with  me  all 
the  summer ;  if  you  were  not,  why  it's  all 
right,  and  let  us  get  married  soon.  We 
would  move  about  as  much  as  you  pleased 
till  I  was  obliged  to  be  back  in  England 
again,  and  I  feel  sure  that  that  is  what  you 
want  to  ease  off  some  of  your  excitement 
and  restlessness,  and  make  you  content  with 
ordinary  life  again.  Good-night,  clearest ; 
write  at  once  and  let  me  know  precisely 
what  your  views  are  now. — Affectionately 
yours. 


SHE. — EXPLAINING  FURTHER,  AND  CONCERN- 
ING   PASSION 

'O,  I  cannot  write  as  you  de- 
sire. We  are  so  utterly  differ- 
ent. A  month  ago  I  did  not 
see  it ;  now  I  do,  for  your  let- 
ters have  made  all  things  clear. 
By  the  river  we  felt  the  same  breeze,  the 
same  sunshine ;  we  thought  they  had  the 
same  effect  upon  us,  that  in  all  things  we 
felt  alike.  The  days  we  spent  together 
were  drowsy  summer  ones,  and  you  were 
a  dream  to  me ;  perhaps  I  was  one  to 
you.  We  did  not  talk  much,  not  enough 
to  find  each  other  out,  and  it  is  to  that 
we  owe  our  memories.  I  am  glad  to  have 
mine  ;  I  was  so  happy,  and  I  loved  you, 
remember,  which  sanctifies  them,  so  that  I 
am  not  ashamed  because  of  the  long  hours 
in  which  I  was  wholly  content. 

But  life  is  not  spent  by  the  river-side,  or 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  29 

in  a  dream.  The  summer  is  over,  we  are 
awake,  and  our  story  is  finished.  To  at- 
tempt to  live  our  lives  together  would  be 
madness.  You  must  marry  your  cousin 
Nell.  She  will  be  a  better  wife  to  you  than 
I  could  be  at  my  best.  She  probably  be- 
longs to  the  type  you  like,  and  that  the  ma- 
jority of  men  like,  when  they  want  to  marry 
and  settle  down — the  wife  and  home  and 
motherhood  type  that  nineteen  centuries  of 
Christianity  have  taught  us,  and  rightly,  to 
admire.  But  I  do  not  belong  to  it,  and 
cannot. 

I  could  hardly  bear  to  read  your  offers 
of  travel.  It  was  as  though  you  were  try- 
ing to  bribe  me  with  them,  knowing  that  of 
love  there  was  not  enough.  How  dreary 
those  journeys  would  be  !  Worse  even  than 
the  long  evenings  when  we  looked  at  each 
other  across  the  dinner-table,  and  then  from 
either  side  the  fireplace,  glancing  now  and 
again  at  the  clock,  thinking  how  slowly  it 
went  towards  the  point  at  which  we  might 
rise,  and  with  dull  satisfaction  feel  that  the 
day  was  over.  I  can  imagine  our  setting 
out ;  I  can  see  us  on  our  way,  you  with  your 
time-table  and  guide-book,  your  Gladstone 
bag  and  portmanteaus,  easy-going  and  good- 
tempered,  anxious  about  your  food  and  de- 


30  A    MODERN,  CORRESPONDENCE 

liberating  as  to  the  hotels,  always  spending 
your  money  with  an  easy  hand,  yet  seeing 
that  proper  attention  was  paid  you.  I  can 
almost  hear  what  you  say  as  I  walk  beside 
you,  my  Englishman  in  tweeds,  along  the 
railway  platforms ;  and  I  can  see  myself, 
too,  a  little  tired  and  disagreeably  inclined 
towards  other  people,  snapping  at  my  maid 
for  being  forgetful,  yet  meekly  listening  to 
your  instructions.  How  we  should  drag 
through  the  cities,  looking  at  pictures  and 
pretending  that  we  cared  about  them,  or 
yawn  at  table  d'hbtes,  or  go  off  to  see  bits  of 
scenery  because  other  people  went,  but  se- 
cretly feeling  bored  by  them  as  by  most 
things ;  I  getting  more  and  more  tired,  and 
you  reflecting  that  after  all  there  was  no 
place  like  one's  own  home.  I  could  not  en- 
dure it.  Yet  I  could  tramp  gayly  in  tatters 
across  great  plains  or  over  the  mountain- 
tops  with  a  beggar  who  was  a  poet,  a  me- 
chanic who  was  a  genius,  a  dreamer  who 
talked  of  a  waking  time  to  come.  I  could 
go  merrily  enough  through  the  cities  though 
we  had  never  a  coin  between  us  to  pay  for 
a  sheltering  roof.  We  would  rest  beyond 
the  gates,  crouching  under  a  hedge  to  sleep, 
and  sitting  by  a  lonely  way-side  cook  our 
scanty  food  with  the  help  of  the  little  tin 


A    MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE  31 

canteen  we  carried  with  us.  I  should  think 
of  the  time  when  the  city  we  had  left  would 
ring  with  my  hero's  name,  of  how  he  would 
lead  his  soldiers  through  it,  or  teach  those 
who  wanted  to  learn,  or  help  those  who  suf- 
fered now  and  must  wait  till  he  was  ready. 
"They  do  not  know  his  name  yet,"  I  should 
say  to  myself ;  "  they  did  not  even  look  up 
at  his  face  as  we  passed  by,  but  they  will, 
they  shall,  for  some  day  the  whole  wide 
world  will  be  but  the  setting  for  his  work." 
All  nonsense  and  exaggeration,  you  will  say. 
Yes,  dear  ;  it  is,  and  I  know  it.  But  over  a 
bridge  built  of  dreams  and  exaggerations 
Love  often  goes  blindfold  towards  the  reali- 
ties it  may  never  reach  itself,  leaving  a  track 
that  the  stronger  may  follow,  and  would  not 
have  thought  out  for  themselves.  To  the 
lovers  and  the  dreamers  and  enthusiasts  it 
is  sometimes  given  to  move  the  world  with 
their  shoulders  ;  the  plodders  do  it  stone  by 
stone  while  the  ages  admire  their  patience. 
The  last  are  like  school -boys  learning, 
but  to  the  first  the  heavens  and  hells  have 
whispered. 

Passion  soon  fizzles  out,  you  say,  and  you 
think  only  of  the  passion  of  a  wicked  French 
novel.  There  is  another  type  of  man,  un- 
like enough  to  your  healthy,  manly  self, 


32  A   MODERN    CORRESPONDENCE 

who  does  this — the  man  who  is  above  all 
things  intellectual,  who  has  much  book- 
knowledge,  and  has  read  and  remembered 
and  stored  his  mind  with  the  work  of  other 
men,  so  that  his  talk  and  writings  are  full 
of  literary  allusion.  Through  his  mind 
there  niters  constantly  a  stream  of  other 
men's  thoughts ;  if  that  gave  out  his  mind 
would  be  empty,  for  he  creates  nothing. 
His  mission  he  takes  to  be  to  tinker  at 
other  men's  work  and  appraise  it,  and  he 
does,  seeing  it  usually  by  a  borrowed  light. 
Learned  and  lukewarm,  cold  and  cynical 
towards  most  things  that  have  not  been 
dust  these  hundred  years,  he  has  no  more 
passion  in  him  than  he  has  genius.  An 
odd,  incomplete  creature,  a  modern  refine- 
ment—for he  would  often  be  a  little  fash- 
ionable in  these  latter  days,  and  is  to  be  met 
with  at  dinner- tables  and  country  houses, 
and  traced  in  our  literary  journals — I  some- 
times wonder  where  the  good  of  him  comes 
in,  for  he  gives  the  world  nothing  that  is  his 
own,  and  that  which  he  finds  ready  to  hand 
is  no  better  for  his  commenting  and  gar- 
nishing, but  rather  the  reverse.  It  is  him, 
I  think,  on  whom  your  mind  is  running  when 
you  talk  of  Zola  and  Darwin,  but  he  has 
nothing  in  common  with  either;  and  you 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  33 

and  he  have  nothing  in  common — which  is 
all  to  the  good  of  you — except  that  both  of 
you  think  that  passion  is  usually  dashed 
with  wickedness,  and  has  but  one  meaning 
attached  to  it.  The  very  word  you  consid- 
er an  undesirable  one  to  use,  especially  be- 
fore women  or  in  polite  society.  You  are 
not  quite  sure  that  it  is  proper. 

But  the  passion  I  mean,  and  would  have 
in  my  lover's  heart,  was  in  Joan's  when  she 
rode  into  Rheims  to  crown  her  king.  If  it 
had  but  lasted  a  little  longer  it  would  have 
deadened  the  outward  flames  at  her  burn- 
ing, and  her  shrieks  would  not  have  echoed 
in  our  ears  through  all  the  centuries.  It 
was  in  Napoleon's  heart  when  he  strode  on 
before  his  army  and  thought  the  whole 
world  would  be  his.  It  was  in  Samuel 
Plimsoll's  heart  when  he  stepped  forth  and 
by  a  passionate  moment  won  his  cause.  A 
score  of  men  along  the  benches  might  have 
lulled  each  other  with  their  dull  platitudes 
for  a  score  of  years  without  doing  what  that 
one  moment's  fire  did.  It  is  in  the  novice's 
heart  when  she  hears  the  great  gate  clang 
behind  her,  and,  raising  her  clasped  hands, 
thinks  that  she  will  surely  one  day  scale 
the  heights  of  heaven  and  see  her  Saviour's 
face.  Read  "St.  Agnes'  Eve"  —  Tenny- 


34-  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

son's,  not  Keats's,  I  mean  —  and  you  will 
understand.  My  heart  has  stirred  to  it  till 
I  could  have  thrown  the  book  aside,  and, 
walking  through  the  frosty  snow  to  the  con- 
vent, have  besought  them  to  let  me  in  for 
one  moment  to  stand  beside  the  white- 
veiled  figure,  and  see  the  light  as  it  never  is 
seen  by  the  sayers  of  prayers  and  singers 
of  hymns  in  the  stifling  churches  of  the 
world.  But  this  was  only  a  passing  feeling, 
a  power  of  the  poet's,  that  proves  him  and 
not  one's  self.  And  it  is  not  the  whole  of 
what  I  mean,  for  I  want  all  that  is  in  the 
novice's  heart,  but  more  added  on.  I  do 
not  want  your  reverence,  I  told  you,  and 
that  is  true,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be  good, 
absolutely  good,  for  that  means  being  bound 
by  finite  possibilities,  and  it  is  the  infinite  in 
all  things,  good  and  evil,  that  has  the  eternal 
power.  And  I  would  like  all  feelings  in  my 
lover's  heart  to  have  their  fling,  while  we, 
whom  the  issue  most  concerned,  breathless- 
ly awaited  the  result,  leaning  to  this  side  or 
to  that  according  to  our  strength,  or  that 
which  was  brought  to  bear  on  it.  For  men 
and  women  are  not  meant  to  kill  their 
strongest  feelings  and  impulses,  but  only  to 
understand  them,  to  know  when  to  govern 
or  to  let  themselves  be  governed.  To  this 


A  MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  35 

last  knowledge  the  world  owes  the  greatest 
deeds  that  men  have  done.  In  passion 
there  is  fire,  and  does  not  fire  purify  as 
well  as  burn  ?  The  prairie  flames  sweep  all 
growths  before  them  as  they  make  unflinch- 
ingly towards  their  goal,  and  the  goal  of 
passionate  love  at  its  highest  is  achievement 
that,  but  for  its  sake,  would  never  have  been 
gained.  It  is  the  achievement  I  long  for, 
not  for  myself,  but  for  my  best-loved;  I 
would  go  away  if  he  willed  it,  when  he 
needed  me  no  more,  and  be  remembered 
nowhere  save  in  his  heart.  I  should  know 
the  fire  there.  Did  not  Prometheus  filch 
it  from  heaven  ?  Perhaps  it  would  mount 
higher  and  higher  on  good  work  done  till 
it  touched  the  heavens  again. 

But  all  this  you  think  mere  craving  for 
excitement,  a  lack  of  repose,  an  aching  to 
be  prominent.  It  is  none  of  these.  Still,  in 
my  heart  there  is  nevertheless  a  leaning  for- 
ward towards  the  future— not  my  own  fut- 
ure, but  the  whole  world's.  Nonsense,  you 
will  say ;  what  have  I  to  do  with  that  ?  We 
have  all  to  do  with  it;  we  cannot  separate 
ourselves  off  from  it,  for  this  present  self- 
consciousness  that  we  call  life  is  not  the 
whole  of  us  unless  we  choose.  There  is  one 
thing  ours  from  the  time  we  enter  the  world, 


36  A  MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE 

if  we  did  but  know  it  —  it  is  part  of  life's 
mystery  that  we  should  so  seldom  know  it 
— the  power  to  fashion  our  own  immortali- 
ty, not  in  our  own  bodies,  but  in  the  things 
we  do.  A  sort  of  choice  or  chance — which 
is  it? — seems  to  be  ours,  to  seek  the  stars 
or  tread  the  depths.  Have  we  not  come 
out  of  the  past  leaving  strange  histories  we 
cannot  even  remember  behind  us  ?  Here 
in  our  present  day  we  choose,  so  it  is  given 
to  me  to  feel,  whether  we  will  let  the  poten- 
tialities stamp  us  out,  or  whether,  having  in 
some  shape  paid  the  world  for  its  light  and 
shelter,  its  love  and  joy,  though  its  alterna- 
tives were  pain  and  woe,  we  go  on  into  the 
future  ages  stronger  for  that  with  which  we 
have  nourished  our  souls.  Oh,  my  dear,  it 
is  not  excitement  that  I  want.  I  believe  I 
could  wait  long  years  to  meet  a  single  day, 
and  having  known  it  live  long  years  again 
remembering,  though  never  a  ripple  stirred 
Time's  surface  before  or  after.  But  I  could 
not  be  content  with  your  life  and  its  lack  of 
possibilities.  You  would  not  ask  me  to  go 
to  you  hungry  if  you  had  no  food,  shivering 
if  you  had  no  shelter  ?  Yet  this  would  be 
little  beside  the  starvation  you  offer  me. 
Why  should  I  give  up  to  you  all  my  chances, 
all  my  ambitions,  my  hopes  and  longings, 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  37 

the  wild  love  and  satisfying  life  that  may  be 
mine — nay,  my  pain  and  bitter  woe,  for  I 
would  miss  none  —  and  the  work  that  will 
surely  some  time  come  to  my  eager  hands 
and  heart,  for  what?  To  please  you  now 
for  just  a  little  space,  till  you  awoke  to  re- 
alize that  life  together  was  not  what  you 
had  imagined  it  would  be,  that  something 
was  wrong,  was  missing,  you  could  not  tell 
what ;  while  I,  who  had  never  slept,  would 
understand  well  enough  all  the  time,  and 
some  day,  feeling  the  twitch  of  the  demon's 
finger  on  my  arm  and  his  whisper  in  my  ear, 
I  should  vanish,  how  or  where  I  should 
hardly  know.  For  the  marriage  vow  be- 
tween us  would  not  be  one  that  bound  my 
soul,  and  my  feet  would  be  swift  to  follow 
that  whither  it  went.  To  hold  fast  by  one's 
soul  as  long  as  may  be  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
gods. 

It  is  no  use  saying  more.  Perhaps  you 
are  right  in  thinking  that  I  don't  know  what 
I  am  driving  at.  Do  any  of  us  know 
whither  we  are  going?  But  that  does  not 
prevent  us  from  feeling  driven ;  and  this  I 
know,  that  the  Fates  are  driving  me  with  a 
strong  hand  away  from  you.  We  shall  never 
get  nearer  to  each  other  though  I  write  on 
and  you  read  on  forever.  Be  content  with 


38  A  MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

the  past.  I  have  loved  you.  I  do.  But 
not  with  the  love  that  would  let  me  be  your 
wife,  content  to  spend  my  days  by  your  side, 
trying  to  make  your  days  happy ;  perhaps  it 
is  some  of  your  own  good-for-wear-and-tear 
affection  that  I  give  you  back.  I  do  not 
know.  There  are  many  men  like  you,  thank 
God — many  good  women  to  mate  with  them, 
crowds  of  you  both,  happy  enough  to  walk 
along  the  beaten  track  with  your  fellows, 
doing  as  they  do,  being  as  they  are,  a  rest 
and  comfort  for  the  like  of  me  to  take  shel- 
ter with  sometimes,  but  not  to  abide  with  al- 
ways. For  your  place  is  in  your  home,  and 
your  duties  are  to  fulfil  the  easy  obligations 
that  keep  it  going ;  but  mine,  in  some  strange 
fashion,  seems  to  be  along  the  world's  high- 
way, staying  now  and  again  in  its  workshops, 
though  it  be  but  to  watch  my  masters,  or  to 
be  cuffed  and  made  to  stand  aside  till  my 
own  turn  comes.  Perhaps  I  should  be  hap- 
pier if  I  were  like  your  cousin  Nell,  and 
could  be  satisfied — but  I  cannot  Home 
and  its  influences  ;  a  husband  who  would 
love  me  and  to  love  back  and  help  in  an 
easy  routine  like  yours ;  children  with  their 
games  and  laughter,  growing  up  to  be  the 
world's  good  citizens — sometimes  it  comes 
into  my  heart  to  long  for  these,  to  ache  for 


A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE  39 

the  rest  they  would  mean,  the  simple  life  and 
further-reaching  power  than  those  who  live 
within  its  fences  think,  the  safe  and  even 
way  that  most  women  yearn  to  walk,  looking 
neither  up  at  the  heights  nor  down  at  the 
depths,  but  only  at  the  road  before  them, 
content  enough  to  tread  it.  But  no.  It  is 
so  strange,  this  inner  life,  with  the  outward 
one  that  hides  it — the  brother  and  his  deli- 
cate wife,  the  visitors  coming  and  going,  the 
dogs  and  the  horses,  the  long  rides  and 
walks,  the  pulls  on  the  river  or  the  dream- 
ing beside  it,  the  going  to  town  or  to  coun- 
try houses  and  the  hurry  of  life  there,  the 
men,  "  the  half  a  dozen  fellows  "  as  you  call 
them,  who  talk  of  love,  not  knowing  how 
much  or  how  little  they  mean.  It  all  seems 
a  little  way  off  from  me,  and  yet  I  am  here 
in  the  midst.  You  !  Oh,  but  it  has  been  all 
a  sad  mistake !  I  loved  you,  and  thought 
you  understood.  That  you  love  me,  or  have 
loved  me,  I  know  well  enough ;  but  there  is 
a  great  space  between  us,  a  desert  in  which 
we  should  have  to  walk  if  we  tried  to  be  to- 
gether. No,  again  and  forever,  no.  Your 
life  stands  out  clear  before  you,  but  some- 
thing tells  me  that  mine  has  other  chapters 
than  this.  There  are  some  words  that  went 
to  my  heart  long  ago.  Oh,  my  dear  Eng- 


40  A   MODERN   CORRESPONDENCE 

lishman,  perhaps  you  will  say  that  they  were 
written  by  an  improper  poet.  Zola  and 
Swinburne  !  Marry  your  cousin  Nell  by  all 
means.  I  do  but  watch  and  wait  like 
those — 

"...  who  rest  not  ;  who  think  long 
Till  they  discern  as  from  a  hill 

At  the  sun's  hour  of  morning  song, 
Known  of  souls  only,  and  those  souls  free, 

The  sacred  spaces  of  the  sea." 

Some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  see  and  know 
more,  but  then  I  shall  not  be  here.  Good- 
bye, once  again. 


VI 

HIS   MOST   INTIMA  TE    FRIEND. CONSOLING 

>EAR    E ,  I  don't  think  you 

an  awful  cad  for  sending  on 
her  letters,  and  I  don't  wonder 
at  your  being  puzzled  by  them. 
Of  course  I  will  keep  their  con- 
tents hidden  in  the  innermost  recesses  of 
my  soul.  They  are  not  like  ordinary  love- 
letters — thank  Heaven.  For  a  nice  little 
note,  with  a  monogram  in  the  corner,  a  word 
or  two  doubtfully  spelled,  and  crammed  full 
of  dears  and  darlings,  is  worth  a  stack  of 
these,  which  might  have  been  written  to  her 
great -gran  dm  other. 

I  take  her  in  pretty  well.  She  isn't  alto- 
gether a  fool,  you  know ;  but  she  is  one  of 
the  large-minded,  great-souled  people,  long- 
ing to  suffer  and  distinguish  themselves  in 
the  cause  of  humanity  and  for  the  good  of 
the  world,  who  are  such  a  nuisance  nowa- 
days. She  means  well,  but  she  would  be 


42  A   MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE 

death  to  marry;  there's  no  knowing  what 
she  would  be  up  to  by  the  time  she  was 
thirty.  The  amazing  thing  about  it  is  that, 
if  I  remember  rightly,  she  is  that  pretty 
woman  who  came  over  with  the  Fenwicks 
to  my  aunt's  place  last  Easter.  She  was 
about  six  or  seven  and  twenty,  played  lawn- 
tennis  better  than  any  one  else,  flirted  all 
round,  and  finally  drove  herself  away  on  a 
high  dog -cart  with  a  learned,  half-starved- 
looking  cuss,  from  whom  she  was  probably 
imbibing  some  of  these  notions.  Nature 
made  a  mistake  in  sorting  out  her  physique  ; 
she  ought  to  have  been  tall  and  lank,  with 
long  arms,  high  cheek-bones,  and  a  washed- 
out  complexion.  All  the  same,  in  spite  of 
her  good  looks,  I  shudder  to  think  of  her  as 
mistress  of  Bingwell.  The  only  good  bit  in 
the  whole  of  her  letters  is  the  polite  allusion 
to  the  savory  and  the  salad.  That  looks 
as  if  she  could  order  a  dinner;  but  she 
would  probably  forget  to  do  so  half  her  time, 
and  I  suppose  she  would  scorn  to  eat  it — 
though  the  material  side  of  her  doesn't  seem 
to  be  undeveloped.  Before  she  had  been 
installed  a  month  you  can  bet  she  would 
have  shocked  the  neighbors  and  fought  with 
the  parson.  And  what  a  woman  she  would 
be  to  stay  with !  She  would  have  an  open 


A   MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE  43 

contempt  for  her  visitors  all  round,  and  lead 
them  a  nice  life,  except  the  unwashed  few 
she  calls  the  masters  of  the  world.  It  is 
really  a  fine  name,  if  you  come  to  think  of 
it ;  somehow  it  reminds  me  of  Spain,  where 
every  beggar  in  tatters  asking  for  cuartos  is 
a  gentleman.  No,  old  man,  marry  your 
cousin  Nell  (in  spite  of  her  fancy  for  life's 
alternatives,  she  doesn't  seem  to  like  that 
one  of  yours),  or  any  other  sensible  girl  who 
doesn't  think  she  has  a  destiny  or  a  mis- 
sion, and  thank  your  stars  that  this  magnifi- 
cent person  would  not  have  you.  —  Ever 
yours. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY 
WOMAN 


i 

MRS.  ROBERT   WILLIAMS    TO    MRS.  POWER 

DAFFODIL,  BRECON,  S.  WALES, 
Jamiary  26,  1884. 

Y   DEAR   MARY,— I   am    not 
surprised  at  your   having  met 

Madge  Brooke  at  the  C 's, 

for  she  manages  to  go  every- 
where now.  This,  of  course,  is 
entirely  owing  to  her  brother's  position, 
and  to  the  fact  that,  instead  of  making  her 
an  allowance  and  telling  her  to  live  alone, 
as  most  brothers  would,  he  lets  her  live 
with  him.  The  generosity  shown  by  men 
to  their  relations  is  often  singularly  irritat- 
ing to  lookers-on,  and  John  Brooke  fur- 


46  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

nishes  an  instance  of  this  in  his  conduct 
towards  his  sister.  Some  day,  however, 
her  reign  will  end,  for  he  is  sure  to  mar- 
ry, in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  keep  him 
single.  I  shall  be  curious  to  see  what 
Madge  will  do  then.  Two  years  ago  he 
was  most  attentive  to  my  Isabel,  and  though, 
of  course,  Isabel  with  her  advantages  did 
not  care  about  him,  the  wiles  of  Madge  to 
prevent  a  climax  were  quite  ridiculous. 

I  understand  your  desire  to  know  all 
about  the  Brookes  before  encouraging  an 
intimacy.  I  am  extremely  cautious  about 
new  people  myself  now  that  my  girls  are 
grown  up ;  besides,  I  feel  it  due  to  our  long 
friendship  to  answer  you  frankly,  as  I  should 
like  you  to  answer  me. 

Madge  Brooke  and  her  brother  John  are 
the  children  of  my  husband's  sister.  They 
were  left,  when  their  parents  died,  with  an 
income  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
year.  My  own  opinion  was  that  this  should 
have  been  sufficient  to  prevent  them  from 
becoming  a  burden  to  other  people.  Rob- 
ert, who  is  always  foolishly  good-natured, 
thought  differently.  The  boy  was  sent  to 
an  expensive  school,  spending  his  holidays 
with  us,  and  afterwards  went  to  Oxford ;  the 
girl  came  here.  This  arrangement  was  ex- 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  47 

ceedingly  unpleasant  to  me,  but  I  endeav- 
ored to  do  my  duty.  Feeling  that  Madge 
could  not  expect  to  stay  here  always,  espe- 
cially if  anything  happened  to  Robert,  I  did 
not  demur  at  her  receiving  a  good  education, 
so  that  she  might  ultimately  turn  it  to  ac- 
count. She  grew  up  to  be  a  tall,  graceful 
girl ;  some  people  thought  her  handsome, 
and  she  had  a  way  when  she  chose  of  mak- 
ing people  like  her.  I  never  cared  about 
her  myself  or  particularly  admired  her;  I 
prefer  a  simpler  type.  People  always  talked 
about  her  a  good  deal  and  called  her  orig- 
inal. I  am  very  thankful  that  my  girls  are 
not  original.  It  is  always  doubtful  how  far 
experiments,  whether  in  human  nature  or  in 
anything  else,  will  succeed  ;  at  present,  judg- 
ing from  the  fact  that  Madge  is  seven-and- 
twenty  and  unmarried,  she  is  not  a  success. 
Had  she  been  an  ordinary  woman,  an  ordi- 
nary man  might  have  settled  down  with  her. 
Still,  as  I  say,  some  people  liked  her.  The 
Wentworths  at  the  Rectory,  for  instance, 
were  never  tired  of  seeing  her  there ;  she 
and  Nellie  Wentworth  were  inseparable,  tak- 
ing long  walks  and  reading  the  same  books, 
until  they  made  themselves  look  absurd.  I 
did  not  interfere  with  them,  for  it  took 
Madge  away  from  my  children,  with  whom 


48  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

I  did  not  care  she  should  spend  too  much 
time.  This  was  not  because  of  anything 
bad  in  the  girl,  but  because  I  feel  strongly 
that  there  should  be  a  line  drawn  between 
the  children  who  are  properly  provided  for 
by  their  parents,  and  children  left  by  their 
parents  to  the  charity  of  others.  This  may 
sound  harsh,  but  is  not  the  Scripture  meant 
for  our  acceptance  in  the  letter  as  well  as  in 
the  spirit?  and  we  are  expressly  told  that 
God  himself  visits  the  sins  of  the  parents 
on  the  children,  and  not  for  one  generation 
only.  We  also  should  make  it  a  point  to 
let  children  feel  the  shortcomings  of  their 
parents,  so  that  in  future  years  they  may 
profit  by  the  lesson. 

When  Madge  was  seventeen  or  eighteen 
the  Aliens  at  the  Grange  had  on  a  visit  to 
them  a  young  man  called  James  Harrison. 
The  Aliens  are  those  people  we  asked  to 
our  picnic  as  an  afterthought  when  you 
were  here,  and  who  so  much  admired  your 
children.  They  are  rich,  but  made  their 
money  in  business  or  by  speculation,  and 
they  and  their  visitors  are  altogether  unin- 
teresting. Mr.  Harrison  was  a  young  man 
in  a  merchant's  office,  well  connected  with 
business  people,  and  so  likely  to  get  on. 
He  fell  in  love  with  Madge,  who,  after  be- 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  49 

ing  engaged  to  him  for  some  months,  sud- 
denly jilted  him ;  why  I  never  could  divine, 
unless  it  was  as  a  sign  of  the  originality 
which  is  unfortunately  her  characteristic. 
I  was  very  angry  indeed  at  her  conduct, 
and  her  brother  having  left  Oxford,  she 
went  to  live  with  him  in  London,  where 
they  were  for  some  time  very  poor  and 
pretended  to  be  very  happy.  Suddenly 
John  Brooke,  who  had  got  into  a  firm  of 
engineers,  was  sent  to  India  about  the  con- 
struction of  a  railway.  He  took  Madge 
with  him,  and  there,  and  afterwards  in  Eng- 
land, there  was  some  sort  of  a  flirtation  or 
engagement  with  Mr.  Mark  Cuthbertson,  a 
rather  clever  artist,  who  does  pictures  for 
illustrated  papers.  He  was  at  school  and 
afterwards  at  Oxford  with  John  Brooke,  but 
was,  I  believe,  very  idle,  and  never  did 
much  good.  He  stayed  here  once  some 
years  ago,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  with 
Madge,  who  was  then  a  little  girl.  In  India, 
and  afterwards,  John  Brooke  developed  gen- 
ius as  an  engineer  and  in  everything  else 
he  touched.  He  is  really  charming,  and,  as 
you  know,  has  carried  all  before  him,  both 
in  his  profession  and  in  society.  Though 
only  thirty,  I  am  told  that  he  makes  a  large 
income,  and  he  goes  everywhere,  especially 


50  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

among  intellectual  people.  He  is,  however, 
very  obstinate  in  some  ways,  and  does  very 
odd  things  ;  for  instance,  once  when  he  was 
obliged  to  be  away  for  a  few  months  he  al- 
lowed Madge  to  stay  at  a  cottage  some- 
where in  Berkshire,  with  no  one  to  look 
after  her  but  a  woman  servant  called  Janet, 
who  was  their  mother's  maid  in  the  days 
when  she  could  afford  one.  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  speak  to  him  about  it,  but  he  grew 
quite  angry,  and  said  he  didn't  care  how 
strange  it  looked,  he  coulcl  trust  Madge 
(men  are  so  foolish) ;  and  if  one  only  took 
care  of  realities,  appearances  righted  them- 
selves. So  I  left  her  to  her  own  devices 
and  the  evil  tongue  of  slander.  I  did  my 
duty,  and  the  rest  was  no  business  of  mine. 
But  to  show  you  how  perverse  she  is,  once, 
when  John  was  again  abroad,  and  she  alone 
in  London,  I  offered  to  go  and  stay  with 
her;  but  she  declined,  on  the  plea  that 
while  her  brother  was  away  she  wanted  to 
be  quite  alone.  I  have  always  disliked 
those  people  who  want  to  be  so  much  alone 
— it  is  unnatural.  Does  not  the  disciple 
say  it  of  man,  how  much  more,  then,  ought 
we  to  say  it  of  woman  ? 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that,  three  years  ago, 
Madge  was  engaged  again  to  a  Lieutenant 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  $1 

Brian,  a  young  man,  the  only  son  of  a  north 
country  parson  who  had  married  an  heiress  ; 
so  that,  though  he  was  only  in  the  artillery 
(she  met  him,  I  believe,  at  a  Woolwich  ball), 
he  would  eventually  have  been  very  well  off. 
The  engagement  ended  abruptly,  I  never 
knew  why,  and  the  young  man  was  killed 
in  some  engagement  in  Egypt.  I  heard 
lately  that  Sir  Noel  Franks  was  after  her, 
but  that  is  probably  nonsense,  for  she  would, 
no  doubt,  be  glad  enough  to  make  so  brill- 
iant a  match.  Last  year  she  and  John 
Brooke  gave  a  dance,  not  at  Bolton  Row, 
but  at  a  larger  house  which  they  hired  for 
the  occasion.  They  asked  us,  and  I  went, 
thinking  it  might  amuse  Grace  and  Isabel ; 
but  I  regretted  it  afterwards,  for  Madge 
was  just  as  attentive  to  the  merest  stranger 
as  she  was  to  me.  Lord  Arthur  Grey  danced 
once  with  Grace,  and  evidently  admired  her, 
but  Madge  kept  him  in  her  pocket  all  the  rest 
of  the  evening — she  is  that  sort  of  woman. 

The  young  man  she  jilted  so  heartlessly 
called  here  a  few  months  ago.  He  was  a 
widower,  and  wanted  to  know  her  address. 
He  had  become  rich,  I  think,  or  fairly  so, 
and  I  hoped  he  would,  after  all,  marry 
Madge,  for  he  is  a  man  with  a  strong  will, 
and  might  have  a  beneficial  influence  on 


52     LOVE  LETTERS   OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN 

her  character ;  but  I  have  not  heard  of  his 
going  to  see  her — perhaps  he  thought  better 
of  it.  The  Mrs.  Hamilton  you  saw  there 
when  you  called  is  her  old  friend  Nellie 
Wentworth,  who  is  a  widow,  for  her  husband 
died  of  sunstroke  in  India,  and  left  her  with 
one  child. 

Now  I  have  told  you  all  I  can  about 
Madge.  You  will  think  that  I  have  written 
a  very  expansive  letter ;  but  she  is  a  person 
who  somehow  irritates  me,  perhaps  because 
I  feel  that  she  is  ungrateful  for  all  the  care 
I  bestowed  on  her  while  she  was  under  my 
roof,  and  for  the  interest  I  have  since  shown 
in  her  welfare.  But  she  is  obstinate  and 
wilful,  and  likes  to  have  her  own  way  so 
much,  that  even  to  give  her  advice  is  an  un- 
pleasant duty  to  which  I  can  only  occasion- 
ally nerve  myself. 

If  you  hear  or  see  much  of  her  in  Lon- 
don you  might  tell  me  of  her  doings,  for  as 
she  is  my  husband's  niece  I  do  not  like  to 
lose  sight  of  her.  I  shall  make  a  point  of 
seeing  her  soon,  for  I  often  feel  anxious 
about  her,  though  she  is  no  longer  young, 
and  since  India  her  complexion  has  gone 
off  terribly — With  best  love  to  your  dear 
girls,  I  am,  your  affectionate  friend, 

MARIA  WILLIAMS. 


II 


MADGE  BROOKE  TO  MRS.  HAMILTON 
(NELLIE) 

BOLTON  Row,  MAYFAIR, 
February  i,  1884. 

>EAREST  NELLIE, —  No,  in- 
deed. I  am  not  changed  at 
heart,  no  matter  how  different 
I  am  in  manner.  If  my  con- 
fidence does  not  go  out  as 
readily,  if  I  am  more  silent,  more  formal, 
it  is  only  that  I  am  older,  graver,  sad- 
der, not  that  I  have  changed  towards  you, 
dear  Nell.  That  I  shall  never  do.  I  am 
just  as  fond  of  you  as  ever,  though  I  do 
not  show  it  as  often  or  as  easily  as  be- 
fore I  had  learned  to  be  silent — long  and 
much  —  and  that  restraint  and  the  hiding 
of  her  feelings  constitute  half  the  power  of 
woman.  And  to  you,  dear,  I  will  always  be 
at  heart  the  same — the  Madge  that  was  in 
the  days  when  we  used  to  hide  away  from 


54  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

Aunt  Maria,  and  felt  so  happy  when  she 
punished  us  by  taking  no  notice  of  our  do- 
ings. Poor  Aunt  Maria  !  I  love  her  as  lit- 
tle as  ever,  and  am  often  angry  with  myself 
on  her  account,  but  she  has  really  been  odi- 
ous lately ;  whenever  we  meet  she  tries  to 
impress  on  me  that  I  am  old  and  ugly,  and 
fast  becoming  of  no  account — not  that  I 
ever  was  of  much  account  in  her  eyes.  Is 
not  the  conduct  of  relations  often  amazing? 
Their  singular  frankness  towards  each  oth- 
er, their  rudeness,  and  their  total  want  of 
appreciation,  or  else  their  absolutely  blind 
belief.  I  do  not  quarrel  with  this  last — it 
should  be,  it  is  delicious,  it  is  compensation 
for  the  scepticism  of  the  rest  of  the  world ; 
but  I  do  quarrel  with  the  first — at  least,  I 
don't  quarrel,  but  I  try  to  keep  clear  of 
Aunt  Maria  giving  me  advice  that  is  wholly 
disagreeable  and  thoroughly  impossible. 
But  let  us  leave  Aunt  Maria  and  think  of 
ourselves. 

You  are  changed,  too,  poor  Nell,  in  the 
six  years  since  we  parted.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  you  alone  in  the  world  with  just 
your  one  little  child  ;  and  yet  I  envy  you — 
you  have  a  great  happiness  to  remember,  a 
great  love,  though  sorrow  is  the  price  of 
both.  My  memories  madden  me  ;  the  hopes 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  55 

and  fears,  the  sweetness  and  shame  of  which 
they  are  made  ;  oh,  that  I  had  yours  !  Some 
things  are  worse  than  death,  dear  Nell. 
Would  it  not  have  been  worse  if  your  hus- 
band had  grown  cruel  and  cold  and  calculat- 
ing, to  have  seen  him  love  you  less,  forget 
you  perhaps  altogether  ?  You  do  not  know 
this  grief.  Yet  I  know  all  you  have  suf- 
fered, dear,  since  I  saw  you  last,  six  years 
ago,  when  you  waved  your  handkerchief  as 
we  left  Bombay. 

Yes,  dear — yes  and  yes,  of  course  and  for- 
ever let  us  be  friends  again,  close  friends  if 
it  be  possible.  Gradually  I  may  thaw,  and 
my  face  no  longer  have  written  on  it,  as  you 
say  it  now  has,  a  life's  history  that  is  a  closed 
book  to  you.  But  you  must  let  me  tell  you 
as  I  can  and  when  I  will.  We  are  too  old, 
too  sad  to  sit  down  as  we  did  when  we  were 
girls,  and  tell  or  write  our  innermost  thoughts 
and  feelings  by  the  yard.  I  may  tell  you  all 
mine  if  you  care  to  know  them ;  I  would 
share  all  yours  ;  but  confidences  must  fit  and 
shape  themselves  to  events,  and  wait  on  the 
needs  of  our  heats  and  souls. 

I  wish  you  were  in  London,  that  we  met 
oftener;  but  if  that  cannot  be  so,  we  will 
write,  and  you  will  at  least  see  that  I  have 
not  forgotten — that  success  has  not  spoiled 


$6    LOVE   LETTERS  OF   A   WORLDLY  WOMAN 

me.  Success?  Sad  failure,  if  you  did  but 
know. 

I  wish  you  were  in  London.  I  want  you  so 
much  to  be  friends  with  John  again,  as  you 
were  years  ago  when  you  were  both  children. 
He  has  not  forgotten  you ;  he  would  like  to 
see  you  often  here,  as  I  should.  He  is  not 
a  bit  spoiled,  though  he  has  tasted  the  sweets 
of  success — dear  John. 

It  was  so  vexing  that  Mrs.  Power  came 
the  only  afternoon  that  you  and  I  had  to- 
gether. .  .  . 

I  must  tell  you  one  odd  thing  before  I 
finish.  You  remember  James  Harrison? 
It  is  years  since  we  parted  at  Daffodil.  The 
other  day  he  suddenly  appeared  again.  He 
and  you ;  and  I  have  news  also  from  Mark 
Cuthbertson,  who  has  been  long  away.  It 
is  as  if  time  were  suddenly  giving  up  its 
past.  James  is  very  prosperous,  a  widower 
with  two  children.  It  would  be  droll  if  it 
were  not  sad. 

I  cannot  write  more  to-night,  and  this  is 
long  enough  as  it  is.  It  is  quite  strange  to 
give  myself  out — even  to  you.  MADGE. 


Ill 

MADGE    BROOKE  TO    HER    BROTHER 

>EAREST  JOHN,— Of  course  I 
will  see  to  all  the  things,  and  I 
am  delighted  to  hear  that  you 
are  coming  back.  It  has  been 
a  dull  fortnight  without  you. 
There  is  little  news — Nellie  Hamilton  was 
in  town  for  a  few  hours  last  week;  but 
that  tiresome  Mrs.  Power  came  in  and 
spoiled  our  talk.  Don't  let  us  know  Mrs. 
Power  if  we  can  help  it ;  but  we  must  try 
not  to  offend  Aunt  Maria,  whose  friend 
she  is. 

Mr.  Harrison  (for  I  will  not  call  him 
James)  has  called  two  or  three  times,  and 
I  have  been  vexed  with  myself  for  being 
bored  by  him.  His  attitude  towards  every- 
thing irritates  me,  he  is  so  very  dogmatic; 
yet  I  believe  he  has  the  kindest  heart  be- 
hind his  badly  made  coat.  Every  one  wor- 
ries or  bores  me  a  little  now,  except  you 


58  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN 

and  Nellie.  Nellie  looks  very  young  and 
sweet  and  sad — and  she  is  all  three.  When 
you  marry,  John,  dear,  I  hope  your  wife  will 
be  like  Nell ;  then  I  shall  be  satisfied. 

Sir  Noel  Franks  asked  us  to  dine  on 
Thursday,  but  I  refused.  It  seemed  a  pity 
to  give  up  a  quiet  evening  together  for  any 
dinner-party  in  the  world.  No,  I  am  not 
flirting  with  him.  Do  not  be  concerned 
about  his  feelings,  he  is  too  much  taken  up 
with  the  world  to  be  romantic.  Perhaps  he 
would  marry  me ;  but  his  last  idea  is  being 
in  love  with  me.  How  odd  it  would  be  to 
see  him  in  love.  When  that  comes  off,  no 
matter  with  whom  it  is,  may  I  be  there  to 
see.  MADGE. 

P.S. — I  forgot  one  bit  of  news.  I  met 
Mrs.  Berry.  She  says  Mark  is  coming  back 
to  England  next  month. 


IV 

MADGE    BROOKE    TO    JAMES    HARRISON 

Thursday. 

•EAR  MR.  HARRISON,— I  fear 
I  cannot  be  at  home  this  after- 
noon, nor  give  you  the  private 
interview  for  which  you  ask.  If 
you  will  forgive  me  for  saying 
it  plainly,  I  feel  that  there  is  nothing  con- 
cerning my  happiness  in  which  you  have  a 
voice  ;  nothing  concerning  my  future  that 
we  need  discuss  together. 

For  your  happiness  and  your  future  you 
have  my  most  cordial  good  wishes,  and  be- 
lieve me,  yours  sincerely, 

MADGE  BROOKE. 


THE    SAME   TO   THE   SAME 

Friday  Night, 

>EAR  JAMES  (since  you  stipu- 
late that  I  will  not  call  you 
Mr.  Harrison), — Your  letter  has 
reached  me,  of  course.  Ever 
since  it  came  I  have  been  star- 
ing all  the  by -gone  possibilities  in  the 
face.  Why  did  you  write  it  ?  I  tried  to 
prevent  your  doing  so ;  for  it  can  alter 
nothing,  can  do  no  good.  It  would  have 
been  far  better  to  have  left  the  past  alone, 
instead  of  trying  to  rake  it  back  over  all 
these  years.  You  beg  me  to  be  explicit; 
to  tell  you  all  that  is  in  my  thoughts. 
You  do  not  know  what  you  are  asking ;  but 
you  have  set  me  wondering  how,  indeed,  to 
answer  you.  There  is  only  one  way,  since 
you  will  have  it  so — to  be  absolutely  and 
cruelly  truthful  at  last,  cost  you  and  me  what 
it  will. 


LOVE   LETTERS   OF   A  WORLDLY  WOMAN    6l 

You  say  you  feel  that  I  loved  you  once, 
and  must,  in  my  heart,  love  you  still.  You 
cannot  understand  why  I  was  false.  You 
think  that  but  for  some  outside  influence, 
but  for  some  one  who  overpersuaded  me, 
and  did  not  like  you,  I  should  have  been 
true.  It  seems  so  cruel  to  sweep  away  the 
illusion  of  your  life,  but  I  had  better  do  so. 
There  is  no  love  in  my  heart  for  you  now ; 
there  was  never  any  in  the  past.  No  one, 
nothing  came  between  us  that  had  not  ex- 
isted from  the  first ;  and,  if  I  was  false,  it 
was  because  I  was  never  true  to  you — never. 
You  fell  in  love  with  me  that  summer  you 
stayed  with  the  Aliens — almost  at  first  sight. 
I  remember  how  your  face  used  to  light  up 
when  you  spoke  to  me;  I  remember  your 
smile  when  you  looked  at  me,  your  voice 
full  of  love,  boyish  love,  but  true  and  stanch 
— love  of  me.  I  have  often  wondered  at  it 
since,  for  I  was  just  an  unformed  girl  in 
those  days,  with  few  attractions  ;  but  never 
in  all  the  years  since,  in  which  I  have  been 
sophisticated  enough  to  doubt  anything,  has 
there  ever  been  a  doubt  of  the  depth  and 
truth  of  your  love  for  me. 

You  were  twenty-two  and  I  was  seven- 
teen. You  were  attentive  enough  all  that 
month  you  stayed  in  Wales.  Then  you  went 


62  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

away,  rather  to  Aunt  Maria's  vexation,  with- 
out any  hint  of  intentions.  She  was  never 
kind  to  me.  She  had  always  hated  being 
obliged  to  take  in  a  not  well-off  niece  and 

o 

nephew,  so  that  John  and  I  had  a  bad  time 
— I  worse  than  he,  for  he  was  much  away, 
and  when  he  went  to  Oxford,  his  life  at 
Daffodil  virtually  ended.  She  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  me.  I  was  a  little  older  than  her  own 
daughters ;  she  wanted  me  married  before 
they  came  out;  it  would  be  an  excellent 
thing  if  you  proposed,  she  said,  and  im- 
pressed on  me  again  and  again  that  I  must 
get  married;  that  it  was  the  one  hope  of  my 
life,  and  should  be  its  one  ambition.  She 
would  not  have  thought  you  good  enough 
for  one  of  her  own  daughters.  You  were 
dull  and  plodding,  "  something  in  the  City," 
a  third  son  of  a  well-to-do  merchant,  not 
well  off  yourself  or  likely  to  be.  She  wel- 
comed you  because  she  wanted  you  to  take 
me  off  her  hands;  but  she  did  not  think 
much  of  you — you  with  just  three  hundred 
a  year  and  no  money  besides.  But  you  were 
good  enough  for  me.  We  could  manage 
very  well  on  your  income,  she  told  me  ;  you 
would  be  at  your  office  all  day  and  so  not 
trouble  me  much.  When  John  left  Oxford 
and  settled  in  London  he  could  live  with  us 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  63 

and  so  help  out  our  income — "if  he  ever 
made  one  of  his  own."  I  remember  those 
words  so  well.  John  !  who  is  now  well-off 
and  famous.  If  she  could  have  only  guessed 
in  those  days  what  he  would  have  become  in 
these,  she  would  have  behaved  differently. 
If  she  could  have  guessed  that  you  would 
grow  rich,  she  would  have  made  more  of  you 
and  thought  you  far  too  good  for  me. 

But  you  went  away  and  made  no  sign. 
Then  she  declared  that  you  had  just  been 
flirting  with  me,  she  had  not  really  supposed 
you  meant  anything,  and  it  was  very  un- 
likely I  should  ever  marry;  she  wondered 
whether  I  could  not  find  a  situation  as  com- 
panion— it  would  be  no  disgrace,  far  better 
than  living  on  my  relations ;  and  then  she 
wondered  if  you  boasted  of  your  flirtation 
with  me,  and  hoped  I  should  not  take  your 
desertion  to  heart.  You,  a  man,  cannot  un- 
derstand the  gall  and  wormwood,  the  posi- 
tive shame  all  this  was  to  a  girl.  If  I  had 
been  a  few  years  older,  I  should  not  have 
borne  it,  I  should  have  gone  out  into  the 
world  and  fought  it  as  best  I  could ;  later, 
too,  I  should  have  felt  that  there  were  other 
men,  other  lovers  in  the  future  for  me,  and 
eagerly  have  awaited  the  right  one,  or  have 
calmly  looked  out  for  one  who  at  any  rate 


64  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

better  took  my  girlish  fancy.  But  as  it  was, 
I  felt  powerless.  I  bore  her  gibes  and  my 
own  half-shame,  and  almost  prayed  that  you 
would  return  and  so  stop  her  sneers;  and 
you  came.  Aunt  Maria  asked  you  for  a  few 
days  to  Daffodil.  A  cold  dread  took  pos- 
session of  me  as  you  came  up  the  drive. 
Your  coming  felt  like  the  arrival  of  the 
executioner  to  one  who,  even  if  he  would, 
for  some  strange  reason  dared  no  longer  live. 
You  devoted  yourself  to  me,  and,  with  alter- 
nations of  fear  and  courage,  I  accepted  and 
repulsed  all  your  attentions  —  do  you  re- 
member? Yet  I  secretly  triumphed  where 
you  showed — for  you  had  no  shame  of  lov- 
ing me,  dear  James — how  much  you  cared 
for  everything  I  said  and  did.  How  I  hate 
myself  for  the  mean  part  I  played,  for  my 
cowardice,  my  meanness,  my  vanity.  How 
you  will  hate  and  despise  me  as  you  read 
this  letter.  Thank  God — yes,  thank  God, 
that  it  is  not  possible  for  any  man's  love  to 
survive  the  reading  of  a  letter  like  this. 
But  it  shall  be  finished  through  and  through 
to  the  end,  and  all  things  made  clear  to  you 
at  last. 

"  Has  he  not  spoken  yet  ?"  Aunt  Maria 
asked,  as  day  after  day  of  your  visit  went  by 
and  still  you  left  me  free.  "  Perhaps,  after 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  65 

all,  he  is  only  laughing  at  you."  I  felt  that, 
at  any  cost,  I  must  stop  her  maddening 
sneers  and  prove  that  I  could  win  an  honest 
man's  love.  After  that  ?  Well,  God  knows. 
And  so,  James,  in  sheer  desperation  as  well 
as  blind  wickedness,  I  led  you  on  and  co- 
quetted with  you,  till  I  saw  that  you  were 
hopelessly  my  slave,  and  then  I  stood  aghast, 
afraid  at  what  I  had  done,  and  tried  to  hold 
you  off. 

The  last  night  of  your  visit  was  Isabel's 
birthday  party.  Neither  you  nor  I  will  ever 
forget  it,  I  suppose.  When  it  was  over,  and 
while  the  guests  were  hurrying  away,  all  at 
the  same  moment,  as  they  used  to  do  at 
those  simple  Welsh  parties,  you  found  me 
alone  in  the  little  study  where  John  used  to 
do  his  lessons.  I  had  fled  there  for  one 
moment's  peace,  one  moment  to  think  alone, 
not  knowing  that  you  were  behind  me.  Then 
it  was  that  you  found  words  to  speak,  and 
told  me  you  loved  me,  and  asked  me  to  be 
your  wife.  I  did  not  dare  say  no  —  I  had 
encouraged  you  too  much ;  besides,  I  knew 
what  would  be  in  store  for  me  if  I  let  you 
go  away  refused.  So  I  nodded  my  head  for 
answer,  feeling,  unconsciously,  as  a  gambler 
when  he  throws  a  stake  that  means  life  or 
death,  curious  and  afraid  at  what  next  will 
s 


66  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

come,  dreading,  perhaps,  both  alike,  no  mat- 
ter which  way  the  dice  fall.  How  well  I  re- 
member it !  You  put  your  arms  round  me  ; 
I  shuddered  and  turned  from  the  kiss  I 
could  not  have  borne  to  touch  my  lips,  and 
knew  in  that  one  moment  what  I  had  done, 
what  was  before  me  ;  my  eyes  were  opened; 
it  was  like  eating  of  the  tree  of  knowledge. 
I  never  said  I  loved  you.  You  were  so  ab- 
sorbed, so  overpowered  with  love  yourself, 
you  never  noticed  my  silence.  You  were 
unsophisticated,  too,  James  ;  you  had  never 
played  lover  before,  and  did  not  know  how 
much  to  expect,  how  much  a  girl  gives  back 
to  the  man  who  has  won  her  heart ;  and  all 
my  shrinkings  and  shortcomings  you  accept- 
ed and  put  down  to  shyness.  I  begged  you 
not  to  marry  me  yet ;  do  you  remember  ?  I 
was  too  young,  I  said,  fearingly. 

"  In  a  year  ?"  you  pleaded ;  and  I  an- 
swered : 

"  Oh  no,  not  in  one  year,  but  two ;  I  shall 
be  only  nineteen  then." 

It  should  be  as  I  wished,  you  said.  You 
would  wait  for  me  seven  years,  or  seventy,  if 
I  would  have  it  so,  and  you  might  only  know 
the  day  would  really  come  when  I  should  be 
yours.  So  I  consented. 

Two  years.  When  we  are  young  they  seem 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  67 

like  a  lifetime.  Before  two  years  were  over 
I  should  have  learned  to  love  you,  I  thought, 
have  grown  reconciled  to  the  idea  of  mar- 
riage— or  have  died.  Two  years  !  No  world 
could  stand  still,  no  fate  remain  unchanged 
through  two  whole  years.  There  was  noth- 
ing I  would  not  have  consented  to  do  at  the 
end  of  that  long  time  so  that  I  gained  a  res- 
pite for  the  moment.  Time  and  change  and 
Fate  would  arrange  things  before  two  years 
had  passed.  So  we  went  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room engaged,  you  and  I ;  you  beaming 
with  happiness,  I  feeling  like  a  prisoner,  and 
yet  knowing  that  I  ought  to  be  happy,  too ; 
I  was  engaged,  and  you  loved  me  ;  I  should 
be  important  among  all  the  girls  about  me ; 
some  day,  too,  I  should  have  a  wedding,  be 
dressed  in  white,  and  stared  at  by  all  the 
village.  I  felt  a  little  elation  now  the  deed 
was  done  that  for  the  moment  passed  itself 
for  happiness,  and  made  me  feel  gentle  and 
grateful  towards  you  —  grateful  to  you  for 
rescuing  me  from  the  position  that  had  been 
mine  until  your  love  came  and  made  the 
whole  world  kinder  towards  me.  I  think 
Aunt  Maria  was  angry  at  the  prospect  of 
our  long  engagement ;  she  had  hoped  to  get 
rid  of  me  sooner — angry  even  at  the  trivial 
importance  the  engagement  gave  me,  and 


68  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

she  vented  her  ill-humor  in  letting  me  know 
that  the  matrimony  in  view  would  be  hum- 
drum enough. 

You  went  away,  and  your  letters  came  ; 
those  ceaseless  letters  filled  with  love,  at 
which  I  wondered  and  was  flattered,  and 
half  amused,  and  yet  from  which  I  shrank. 
Nellie  Wentworth,  the  vicar's  daughter,  was 
engaged  at  that  same  time.  She  used  to 
watch  for  the  postman  every  morning,  and 
only  lived  from  post  to  post.  She  kissed 
her  letters  when  they  came,  and  carried 
them  about  with  her  to  read  again  and 
again  through  the  day.  I  used  to  look  at 
her,  half -wondering,  thinking  how  odd  it 
was  to  be  happy  like  that — to  love  like  that. 
When  your  letters  came,  I  read  them  and  put 
them  by.  I  think  I  should  have  shivered 
if  one  had  touched  my  face,  and  to  have 
kissed  one  would  have  withered  me,  for  girl- 
hood has  very  strong  repulsions  which  it 
cannot  help.  It  was  an  odd  feeling  to  have 
towards  the  man  I  was  going  to  marry.  Do 
not  blame  me  over-much :  I  could  not  help 
it,  and  it  was  not  born  in  me  till  I  had  prom- 
ised to  marry  you,  and  your  arms  had  felt 
like  prisoners'  chains. 

I  struggled  to  be  true,  to  love  you,  to  be 
kind  to  you,  and  tried  to  write  so  that  you 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  69 

should  be  pleased.  I  wanted  to  be  good — 
oh  !  I  longed  more  than  I  can  tell  you  to  be 
good,  to  be  holy,  as  I  had  vowed  to  be  a 
year  before  my  confirmation ;  and  I  used  to 
feel  that  I  must  be  true  to  you — I  must — I 
must,  or  all  my  life  be  iniquitous.  I  was  so 
unutterably  lonely,  too,  in  those  days  ;  I  was 
at  the  age  when  one's  heart  begins  to  awake, 
when  one's  woman's  nature  begins  to  assert 
itself ;  I  wanted,  and  did  not  know  that  I 
wanted,  a  true  woman's  life,  its  duties  and 
pleasures  and  love,  the  love  of  those  I  loved  ; 
but  there  was  none  I  loved  save  Nellie,  who 
was  about  to  be  married,  and  John,  who  was 
away,  and  whose  life  I  expected  would  be 
separated  much  from  mine.  I  was  never 
happy  —  never  for  one  moment  while  we 
were  engaged.  The  one  fair  and  honest 
thing  I  did  was  to  jilt  you.  Thank  God  I 
did,  for  I  am  not  a  bad  woman ;  but  if,  in 
those  days,  I  had  married  a  man  who  did 
not  possess  my  whole  heart,  I  do  not  know 
what  might  or  might  not  have  happened  had 
temptation,  come  in  my  way — or  even  if  it 
had  not ;  for  I  am  passionate,  James,  not 
merely  in  my  likes,  but  in  my  dislikes  ;  and 
though  I  never  actually  disliked  you,  I 
should  have  learned  to  dislike — nay,  to  hate 
an  angel  had  I  married  one  without  loving 


70  LOVE    LETTERS   OF 

him  with  all  my  heart.  What  I  suffered 
while  we  were  engaged  no  words  can  tell. 
I  learned  from  Nellie  Wentworth  to  know 
what  love  might  be — to  understand  the  hap- 
piness I  should  be  forever  shutting  out  from 
my  life  in  marrying  you.  She  was  so  hap- 
py at  the  thought  of  being  her  soldier's 
wife,  though  she  knew  that  directly  they 
were  married  he  would  take  her  away  from 
all  she  loved  to  India.  I  only  loved  John 
in  the  world,  and  Nellie  herself — just  those 
two,  and  had  no  happy  home,  but  I  felt  that 
I  should  die  if  I  were  married  to  you  and 
going  away  alone  with  you. 

Nellie  and  I  told  each  other  all  our  little 
secrets — we  vowed  to  tell  them  all  our  lives, 
but  I  was  false  in  that,  too.  I  could  not  tell 
her  that  I  was  engaged  to  a  man  I  did  not 
love,  and  who  yet  imagined  that  I  loved 
him ;  for  I  knew  that  you  did  think  I  loved 
you.  Nellie  was  always  ready  to  talk  of 
Tom  Hamilton,  to  whom  she  was  engaged : 
but  I  never  talked  back  again  of  you.  I 
couldn't ;  I  wanted  to  shut  you  out  of  my 
thoughts,  and  dreaded  your  coming  into  my 
life  more  intimately  than  letters  brought 
you. 

And  still  it  seemed  as  if  by  every  post 
you  loved  me  more  and  more,  and  rejoiced 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  71 

more  and  more  at  the  prospect  of  our  mar- 
riage—that marriage  of  which  the  thought 
made  my  heart  stand  still,  and  my  face  grow 
cold,  for  my  feelings  took  a  stronger  turn, 
and  I  liked  you  less  and  less  instead  of 
more  and  more. 

You  came  at  Christmas ;  my  heart  sank 
as  I  went  down  to  meet  you  in  the  hall. 
Do  you  remember  how  I  shunned  you  dur- 
ing that  visit  ?  I  wonder  you  put  up  with 
me  ;  but  you  were  miserable  —  I  saw  that, 
though  you  made  no  protest. 

A  month  later  you  wrote,  trying  to  hurry 
on  our  marriage.  That  brought  things  to  a 
climax.  I  shed  bitter  tears  over  that  ten- 
der letter  of  yours,  and  wished  a  thousand 
times  that  I  were  dead.  I  loathed  myself 
that  I  must  pain  you  so,  but  still  I  felt  that 
the  time  had  come  when  I  could  live  a  lie 
no  longer.  So  I  wrote  and  begged  you  let 
me  off.  I  told  you  I  did  not  love  you  and 
should  die  if  you  married  me.  You  know 
all  that  followed.  I  thought  you  would 
break  your  heart  from  your  letters ;  but  no, 
you  seemed  to  get  over  it  soon  enough — in 
eighteen  months  you  had  married. 

Aunt  Maria  thought  I  was  mad,  I  think, 
but  it  did  not  matter,  for  it  was  soon  after 
John  had  taken  his  degree,  and  he  brought 


72  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

me  to  London.  That  was  the  first  happi- 
ness— that  being  alone  with  him  and  free — 
that  I  had  known  since  my  dear  mother 
died  years  and  years  before,  when  we  were 
children. 

Do  not  be  harsh  to  me,  James,  now  that 
you  know  how  it  all  came  about.  No  one 
ever  came  between  —  no  one ;  I  was  false 
from  beginning  to  end,  save  when  I  set  you 
free.  It  was  a  long,  distinct  chapter  of  life 
that  ended  with  our  half -frantic  letters; 
yours  doubting  my  words,  believing  that  I 
did  and  must  love  you  in  spite  of  myself : 
mine  determined  that  there  should  be  no 
more  pretence  between  us,  and  that  I  must 
and  would  be  free.  It  was  in  that  same 
chapter  that  life  in  London  began — the  dear 
life  with  my  brother  John.  He  was  not 
well-known  or  well-off  then,  but  poor  and 
struggling.  We  lived  in  shabby  lodgings 
on  very  little  money;  he  was  out  all  day, 
and  I  used  to  walk  about  the  streets,  think- 
ing how  good  it  was  to  be  free ;  how  I 
should  have  died  if  we  had  married ;  how 
terrible  it  would  have  been  if,  every  night, 
instead  of  John  coming  home  to  the  simple 
dinner,  you  had  come,  and  you  my  husband. 
Even  in  thought  I  shrank  from  it.  Was  I 
not  right  to  break  it  off  ?  Love  is  a  strange 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  73 

thing,  that  will  not  be  controlled,  that  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  conveniences,  that 
will  not  be  governed  by  reason,  that  may  go 
to  the  worst  and  leave  the  best — a  thing  al- 
together beyond  our  ken  ;  and  you  may  hate 
me  for  my  conduct — I  deserve  it — but  it 
was  not  my  fault  that  I  did  not  love  you ; 
I  could  not  help  it  Does  this  explain  it  all 
to  you  at  last?  It  answers  your  letter  to 
me  to  day,  too,  and  all  its  questions  —  or 
nearly  all. 

But  there  shall  be  no  more  mistakes,  and 
I  will  answer  the  chief  question  yet  more 
plainly.  No,  no,  and  forever,  no.  I  cannot 
marry  you.  You  will  be  content,  you  say,  to 
marry  me,  even  if  I  do  not  love  you — if  I 
will  only  let  you  try  to  win  me,  and  so  on.  No, 
I  cannot  consent  to  that.  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  proposing — my  ruin,  body  and 
soul,  perhaps  yours  and  your  children's,  for 
I  should  be  restless  and  miserable  and  des- 
perate, and  I  am  a  strange  woman,  to  whom 
fear  of  many  kinds  is  unknown.  I  could 
dare  or  do  some  strange  things  without 
flinching  if  I  were  driven.  If  I  married 
you  I  might  become  torpid,  dull,  or  heavy, 
or  I  might — I  do  not  know,  I  cannot  say ;  I 
only  do  know  that  I  should  bring  you  no 
happiness,  and  we  must  be  strangers.  Be- 


74  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

fore  this  letter  is  finished  you  will  probably 
be  thankful  that  it  is  so.  Don't  think  that 
I  am  cold  or  ungrateful,  for,  in  spite  of  my 
conduct,  I  am  neither.  If  I  were  cold  it 
would  be  easier  to  marry  you ;  as  it  is,  I  can- 
not. If  I  ever  marry  for  anything  but  love 
— it  must  be  for  more  than  you  can  give 
me.  Those  last  words  may  make  you  de- 
spise me,  but  I  would  rather  you  do  that 
than  love  me.  Your  love  does  not  even 
please  my  vanity,  and  that,  too,  may  make 
you  angry,  but  I  cannot  help  it ;  so  that  you 
do  not  talk  to  me  of  love,  I  care  for  nothing 
concerning  you,  and  I  cannot  make  myself 
do  so,  for  my  heart  and  soul  live  wide  miles 
apart  from  yours,  and  will  not  take  account 
of  you. 

It  made  me  shudder  to  read  your  letter. 
You  have  always  loved  me,  you  say ;  you 
think  there  has  not  been  a  day,  an  hour^ 
since  we  parted  all  those  years  ago,  in  which 
you  have  not  loved  me.  I  could  think  of 
nothing  when  I  read  those  words  but  of  how 
terrible  it  must  have  been  for  your  wife. 
No  wonder  she  died,  poor  soul !  I  seem  to 
feel  her  reproachful  eyes  upon  me ;  I  can 
imagine  her  face,  grave  and  sad,  her  poor 
lone  heart  aching  for  that  which  was  never 
hers — no  wonder  she  died.  Surely  she  would 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  75 

rise  from  her  grave  if  I  took  her  place,  and 
yet  a  place  she  never  had,  and  played  moth- 
er to  her  children — her  children,  whom  I  do 
not  think  I  should  love,  to  whom  at  best  I 
should  only  be  dutifully  good,  for  they  are 
not  even  the  children  of  a  man  I  love,  or 
have  ever  loved,  but  of  a  man  I  do  not  love, 
and  of  a  woman  on  whom  I  never  set  eyes. 
There  is  another  thing.  You,  though  you 
love  me,  would  want  to  keep  a  rein  over  me. 
You  have  ideas  of  a  man  being  master,  of  a 
woman  being  submissive ;  you  would  want 
to  show  me  clearly  at  times — though  there 
had  arisen  no  necessity — that  you  were  mas- 
ter ;  you  would  think  it  manly  to  do  so.  But 
I  should  hate  a  man  who  kept  a  rein  over 
me ;  it  is  what  the  men  do  who  are  not  sure 
of  themselves,  the  men  who  feel  that  they 
must  always  be  making  signs  that  they 
are  strong,  lest  they  be  suspected  of  weak- 
ness. It  would  seem  to  me  like  a  jailer 
rattling  the  keys  as  he  walked  by  the  cells, 
lest  the  prisoners  should  forget  that  they 
had  lost  their  freedom.  I  remember  your 
asking  me  once  when  we  were  engaged  if  I 
kept  an  account  of  what  I  spent,  of  the  few 
odd  pounds  a  year  that  were  allowed  me, 
and  when  I  said  no,  you  said,  in  a  firm  voice 
that  sent  a  thrill  through  me,  a  thrill  of  op- 


76  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

position,  "  You  will  have  to  do  it  when  you 
are  my  wife,  darling."  It  was  like  the  flick 
of  a  whip  before  my  eyes;  it  was  the  tone 
of  the  master  who  meant  to  have  his  way, 
to  make  it  clearly  felt  that  he  was  master, 
and  to  let  no  other  will  but  his  be  felt  with- 
in his  doors.  I  think  those  words  alone  did 
much  to  strengthen  the  impossibilities.  They 
opened  a  sudden  vista  of  the  future,  and  ev- 
ery bit  of  me  rose  in  revolt.  I  should  have 
hated  the  life  you  would  have  expected  me 
to  lead  :  its  rules  and  obligations,  its  monot- 
ony. I  dreaded  it  even  when  I  was  only 
seventeen  and  knew  nothing  of  the  world, 
but  now  it  would  kill  me.  You  think,  too, 
that  woman  should  keep  in  the  background, 
that  home  life  and  duties  should  be  sufficient 
for  her,  that  her  views  of  the  outer  world 
should  be  gained  from  her  husband,  and 
those  views  as  a  matter  of  course  agree 
with  his.  You  would  not  approve  of  much 
going  out,  of  social  success  even,  of  individ- 
uality of  any  sort.  This  would  fret  and 
worry  me.  I  am  no  strong-minded  woman  ; 
I  do  not  want  to  go  to  meetings,  still  less  to 
speak  at  them.  But  I  must  have  freedom — 
freedom  to  think  and  read  and  speak  and 
form  my  own  ideas,  as  all  thinking  men  let 
their  wives  do  now.  Since  John  prospered 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  77 

so  well,  and  gave  me  as  his  sister  a  place 
in  the  world,  I  have  had  what  I  wanted.  I 
could  not  give  it  up  to  go  to  live  in  Gower 
Street  as  your  wife,  to  look  after  your  house, 
to  plan  your  quiet  evening  dinner,  to  arrange 
your  children's  lessons,  to  let  all  my  joys 
and  sorrows  be  your  shaping,  submitting 
always  my  will  to  yours.  My  life,  for  all  its 
dreams  and  ambitions,  is  not  a  happy  one, 
has  not  been,  but— 

[  Unfinished,  and  not  sent.} 


VI 

TO  THE  SAME 
(THE  LETTER  THAT  WAS  SENT) 

Saturday. 

HAVE  had  your  letter,  of  course, 
and  would  give  much  if  you 
had  never  written  it,  for  I  can- 
not answer  it  as  you  wish ;  and 
I  beg  you  to  take  this  as  final, 
and  to  believe,  as  I  know,  that  I  could  nei- 
ther make  you  happy  nor  be  happy  with  you. 
It  seems  so  trite  to  say  that  I  am  your 
friend,  but  I  am  and  truly,  and  pray  for 
your  happiness — but  that  must  be  found 
apart  from  me.  M.  B. 


VII 

MADGE    TO    NELLIE 

Saturday  Night. 

WILL  answer  your  letter  soon, 
not  to-night,  for  one  of  my  hor- 
rid moods  has  overtaken  me. 
A  strange  thing  has  happened. 
I  told  you  in  my  last  letter  that 
James  Harrison  had  called ;  that  he  was  a 
widower  with  two  children.  Do  you  remem- 
ber how  shocked  you  looked  when,  a  month 
before  your  marriage,  I  told  you  that  my 
engagement  was  broken  off,  that  I  had  never 
loved  him  ?  I  could  not  make  myself  ex- 
plain it  all  at  the  time,  for  one  reason 
among  others  because  I  feared  your  telling 
Tom.  You  seemed  to  think  my  conduct 
abominable,  and  looked  at  me  almost  with 
horror :  you  with  your  just  one  lover  whom 
you  loved  dearly. 

But  no  one  knows  what  I  had  suffered 
about  James  Harrison,  how  my  heart  used 


80  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

to  sink  when  he  came,  how  I  shrank  from 
him,  and  what  it  was  to  think  of  marriage 
with  him.  You  did  not  understand  how  it 
all  was  then,  but  you  shall  now.  Enclosed 
is  the  letter  I  wrote  him  in  answer  to  his 
proposal  the  other  day.  For,  in  spite  of  my 
conduct,  he  has  asked  me  again,  after  all 
these  years,  to  marry  him.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  send  it  to  him,  but  it  will  make 
things  clear  to  you.  He  has  had  a  decisive 
note  a  few  lines  long.  I  want  you  to  un- 
derstand me,  then  I  shall  be  able  to  meas- 
ure your  love  for  me  better,  to  know  how 
strong  it  is,  and  that  no  surprises  can  make 
it  rock  in  its  foundations.  For  two  women 
to  love  each  other  all  things  must  be  clear 
and  fair — there  must  be  no  mystery  and 
nothing  hidden.  Between  a  man  and  a 
woman  it  is  different.  It  does  not  do,  then, 
to  know  each  other  too  well ;  some  barriers 
should  never  be  broken  down,  some  things 
left  vague  and  undefined — if  a  man's  love 
especially  is  to  continue. 

To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  will  answer  your 
letter,  to-day  I  want  to  begin  making  the 
past  clear  to  you.  That  is  why  I  send  you 
the  impossible  letter  to  James  Harrison.  It 
explains  itself.  We  lost  sight  of  each  other 
when  all  things  were  ended  between  us.  I 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  8l 

shall  never  forget  how  business-like,  in  spite 
of  his  grief,  James  was  in  the  ending ;  he 
asked  for  his  letters  and  presents  back,  and 
returned  mine  —  my  letters,  that  is,  for  he 
had  had  no  gifts  from  me.  Every  envelope 
was  numbered  and  dated,  and  the  last  com- 
munication I  had  from  him  was  a  formal 
acknowledgment  of  the  packet  I  had  for- 
warded. Eighteen  months  later  I  heard 
that  he  was  married,  and,  as  I  thought,  con- 
soled. He  passed  altogether  out  of  my 
life.  I  do  not  think  you  and  I  ever  men- 
tioned his  name  in  India.  He  seldom  even 
entered  my  thoughts  from  the  day  I  heard 
of  his  marriage ;  before  I  had  hated  and 
loathed  myself  for  my  falseness,  but  after  he 
had  taken  a  wife  more  repentance  seemed 
unnecessary. 

One  afternoon,  a  month  ago,  a  card  was 
brought  in  with  his  name  upon  it.  It  was 
impossible  to  refuse  to  see  him,  and  after  all 
those  years  we  met  again.  He  had  altered 
little.  He  was  tall  and  pale  as  ever,  thin 
and  determined  looking.  There  was  an  odd 
business-like  manner  about  him,  brought 
from  the  city,  I  suppose,  where  he  is  a  mer- 
chant. He  looked  prosperous,  and  had  an 
air  of  confidence  that  prosperity  gives,  and 
yet  I  felt  his  hand  tremble-  as  he  took  mine. 

6 


82  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

We  sat  down  and  looked  at  each  other  in 
the  shy,  critical  manner  of  people  who  meet 
after  long  years  of  silence.  He  had  heard 
of  me  through  the  Aliens. 

"  I  longed  to  see  you  again.  You  know 
that  I  lost  my  wife  ?"  he  said,  abruptly. 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  it,"  I  told  him. 

"I  have  been  a  widower  for  a  year,"  he 
said,  firmly,  and  waited  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on,  "One  wants  to  see  one's  old  friends 
again  after  a  loss  like  mine." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  is  very  natural,"  I  answered. 
There  was  nothing  sentimental  in  his  man- 
ner any  more  than  in  his  words  ;  he  did  not 
seem  in  the  least  inclined  to  make  love.  I 
did  not  feel  at  all  alarmed  on  that  point ; 
besides,  I  had  not -yet  grasped  the  fact  that 
he  was  marriageable.  He  told  me  about 
his  wife's  last  illness,  about  his  two  little 
girls,  about  his  house  and  his  ambitions  and 
plans  for  the  future.  He  told  me  in  a  tone 
of  pride  that  he  was  well  off,  "  much  better 
than  in  the  old  days— he  had  just  set  up  a 
brougham." 

"That  is  nice,"  I  said,  and  took  care  not 
to  let  him  know  that  John  had  given  me 
one  three  years  ago. 

The  talk  dwindled  away  after  a  time, 
just  as  it  used  formerly,  for  James  was  nev- 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  83 

er  great  at  conversation.  He  knew  but  few 
people ;  he  never  read  anything  but  his  dai- 
ly paper,  and  the  politics  he  gathered  from 
that  he  only  talked  with  men ;  the  topics  of 
the  outside  world  he  held  to  be  beyond  the 
grasp  of  women.  He  asked  about  John, 
and,  looking  round,  remarked,  "  This  room 
isn't  large,  but  the  locality  is  pretty  expen- 
sive ;  John  must  be  making  a  fortune." 

"No,  not  a  fortune,"  I  answered,  "but 
he  is  doing  well,  and  I  am  very  proud  of 
his  fame." 

He  looked  up  at  the  last  word  as  if  he 
wondered  what  it  meant.  It  was  evident 
that  he  lived  out  of  earshot  of  John's  world. 

"  I  should  like  some  one  to  be  proud  of 
me,"  he  said,  after  a  minute,  with  an  amused 
little  smile,  that  showed  he  thought  John's 
reputation  a  mere  idea  of  an  affectionate 
relation.  Then,  after  another  moment  or 
two,  he  said,  almost  suddenly,  as  if  it  was  a 
conclusion,  and  a  comforting  one,  that  he 
had  jumped  at : 

"  It  is  all  professional  income,  I  suppose  ? 
You  have  not  come  into  any  fortune  ?" 

"No,  we  had  not  come  into  any  fortune," 
I  told  him,  and  he  seemed  gratified  at  the 
intelligence.  Somehow  I  knew  that  he  was 
thinking  that,  in  spite  of  John's  prosperity, 


84  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

I  was  actually  no  better  off  than  I  had  been 
years  ago,  and  that  this  thought  was  a  com- 
fort to  him. 

"  Master  John  will  be  getting  married  one 
of  these  fine  days,  I  expect  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  hope  so,"  I  answered;  and  he 
was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  He  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  hesitated.  There  was  al- 
ways a  little  hardness  in  his  voice  ;  it  was 
very  hard,  yet  shy,  too,  when  he  spoke  again, 
as  though  he  were  saying  something  on 
which  he  had  determined  beforehand. 

"  I  should  like  to  bring  my  little  girls  to 
see  you,  if  you  will  let  me — Madge." 

He  half  hesitated  before  he  brought  out 
my  Christian  name,  but  he  did  it  firmly.  Of 
course  I  said  I  should  like  to  see  them ; 
what  else  could  I  say  ? 

"  I  am  very  anxious  that  they  should  be 
carefully  brought  up,"  he  went  on.  "  I  don't 
believe  in  teaching  girls  too  much,  unless 
they  have  to  earn  their  living,  and  mine  are 
already  provided  for.  I  have  put  away  a 
good  nest-egg  for  both  of  them,  so  they  are 
never  likely  to  have  to  turn  out." 

He  had  a  city  way  of  choosing  his 
phrases,  as  well  as  a  city  manner.  He  is  a 
very  prosperous  mercantile  sort  of  person. 
Intellectual  pursuits  are  as  evidently  not  his 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  85 

as  a  white  tie  or  a  round  collar  are  not  his. 
"Something  in  the  city"  is  writ  large  all 
over  him.  Don't  think  that  I  object  to  this 
as  not  being  fine  enough.  It  isn't  that.  It 
is  that  city  men — obviously  city  men,  with 
their  interests  confined  to  the  city  —  never 
attract  me.  It  is  not  that  they  are  not  grand 
enough,  or  that  I  scoff  at  their  profession — 
don't  think  that  I  am  such  a  snob,  dear  Nell. 
It  is  merely  a  matter  of  taste.  I  prefer  a 
country  laborer  to  a  city  clerk ;  thick,  muddy 
shoes  and  a  slouch  hat  to  a  slim  umbrella 
and  a  frock-coat  I  know  little  about  men's 
clothes  ;  but  I  hate  a  frock-coat,  and  it  was 
one  of  poor  James's  offences  that  he  wore 
one. 

I  thought  he  would  never  go  away.  I 
dreaded  vaguely  what  he  would  say  next ; 
but  at  last  he  did  go,  and  virtually  without 
saying  anything ;  so  I  breathed  freely  once 
more,  though  I  could  not  forget  that  he 
lived  only  a  few  miles  off,  that  he  was  a 
widower,  and  that  his  matrimonial  instincts 
had  always  been  well  developed. 

Still,  perhaps,  after  all,  I  thought,  he 
would  not  trouble  me  any  more.  If  few 
men  really  believe  themselves  unattractive, 
fewer  still  care  to  risk  refusal  twice  from 
the  same  woman,  and  those  who  do  are 


86  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

generally  men  of  a  different  nature  from 
James. 

But  he  came  again.  He  wanted  to  see 
John,  he  said,  as  an  excuse  for  his  visits ; 
but  John  was  always  busy  in  the  day,  and 
when  he  came  home  it  was  generally  only 
just  to  dress,  and  perhaps  pick  me  up  for 
dinner  and  evening  parties ;  he  had  no  time 
for  James  Harrison.  Besides,  he  had  al- 
ways found  James  a  bore,  and  quite  under- 
stood that  but  for  Aunt  Maria  I  should 
never  have  accepted  him.  So  my  old  lover 
was  allowed  to  drift  into  the  tide  of  after- 
noon callers,  who  came  and  went  and  saw 
only  me. 

One  day  he  asked  me  if  I  would  go  and 
see  his  house  and  children.  I  tried  to  ex- 
cuse myself,  and  asked  him  to  bring  the  chil- 
dren to  me. 

"  Not  till  you  have  first  been  to  my  house 
to  see  them,"  he  said,  decisively ;  and  I  felt 
that  if  I  refused  some  strong  feeling  might 
be  roused  in  him,  which  was  the  last  thing 
I  wished.  So  I  consented  to  go  to  tea  one 
afternoon. 

"And  stay  on  to  dinner,  and  ask  John  to 
come,  too  ?"  he  suggested. 

"  No,"  I  said,  quickly;  "  I  can  never  make 
engagements  for  John." 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  87 

"  Well,  then,  fix  a  day  at  once  to  come  to 
tea,"  he  answered,  seeing  that  more  was  im- 
possible ;  and  from  sheer  helplessness  I  did 
so.  I  asked  if  I  might  take  Annie  Masters 
with  me,  remarking  that  she  was  such  a 
pretty  girl,  and  thinking  that  it  would  be  a 
blessed  thing  if  he  would  fall  in  love  with 
her ;  for  she  was  poor,  and  not  over  dis- 
criminating, and  so  might  take  him.  But, 
in  answering  my  request,  his  voice  changed 
and  became  almost  passionate,  though  pas- 
sion had  never  entered  into  James's  love- 
making  formerly.  It  had  been  more  of  the 
quiet,  determined  order. 

"  I  don't  want  Annie  Masters — or  any 
one  else  but  you,"  he  said.  A  little  fear 
crept  into  my  heart.  "  You  know  that,"  he 
went  on,  looking  at  me  with  his  large,  cold 
eyes.  "  Come  alone.  I  wish  it  were  for  al- 
together." I  said  nothing,  but  grew  distant 
and  tried  to  laugh.  To  my  relief  a  letter 
was  brought  in,  and  he  became  curious 
about  that,  looking  at  me  and  waiting  for 
me  to  open  it.  He  seemed  to  be  bearing 
down  upon  me,  and  with  fingers  that  almost 
trembled  I  tore  the  envelope  off  a  card  it 
enclosed — an  invitation  to  a  garden-party 
at  Maryborough  House.  I  put  it  down  on 
the  table,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he 


88  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

looked  at  it — it  was  so  like  James  to  do 
that.  "  Do  they  invite  you  there  ?"  he  said, 
with  a  surprise  that  nettled  me. 

"  And  why  not  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  on  John's  account — you 
say  he  is  getting  on." 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  be  invited 
on  my  own  account,"  I  answered,  haughtily. 

"Perhaps  H.R.H.  admires  you,"  he  said, 
perhaps  wishing  to  be  complimentary. 

"  You  have  skill  in  solving  difficult  prob- 
lems," I  answered,  coldly.  He  looked  at 
me  almost  severely,  then,  with  the  air  of  a 
master,  he  said : 

"You  won't  like  settling  down  quietly — 
some  day  when  you  are  married — after  all 
this." 

"  Perhaps  my  husband  will  not  require 
me  to  do  so." 

"  Most  husbands  like  to  see  their  wives 
settle  down  and  look  after  their  houses  like 
sensible  women." 

"  Or,  I  may  never  marry,"  I  went  on,  tak- 
ing no  notice  of  his  interruption.  He  was 
silent,  and  then  in  a  voice  that  obviously 
came  from  his  heart,  he  answered, 

"  I  hope  you  will,  Madge." 

So  I  went  to  tea  in  Gower  Street.  There 
was  a  middle-aged  governess  with  two  little 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  89 

girls  —  well-behaved,  white -faced  children 
with  thin  noses,  and  long  tails  of  plaited 
dark  hair  hanging  down  their  backs,  just 
entering  the  house  as  I  drove  up.  I  pitied 
them  instantly,  they  looked  like  puppets,  of 
which  the  governess  pulled  the  strings.  The 
one  inducement  to  marry  James  would  be 
the  chance  of  setting  aright  the  lives  of 
those  children. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  house  to, you, 
that  well-kept,  well-to-do,  substantial  house 
in  Gower  Street—it  made  me  shiver  as  a 
prison  might.  The  dining-room  with  the 
big  mahogany  sideboard,  a  silver  salver  in 
the  middle  and  water-bottle  on  either  side ; 
the  leather-covered  chairs,  the  prints  on  the 
wall — Martin's  "  Deluge  "  and  Queen  Victo- 
ria in  her  robes.  I  fancied  the  thick  soup, 
the  boiled  codfish,  the  roast  mutton,  and  ap- 
ple-tart that  would  form  the  sort  of  dinner 
served  there.  James  watched  me,  visibly 
proud  of  the  largeness  of  his  furniture  and 
the  dulness  of  the  abode — I  think  he  par- 
ticularly prided  himself  on  the  dulness ;  it 
was  that  that  added  the  great  element  of 
respectability  to  the  unmistakable  one  of 
well-off  ness.  Then  he  took  me  up  into  the 
drawing-room,  a  little  air  of  triumph  in  his 
manner.  It  was  pathetic  as  well  as  ridicu- 


90  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

lous,  for  I  felt  that  it  was  dawning  on  him 
that  for  himself  I  should  never  love  him,  and 
he  was  trying  to  bribe  me  with  the  sight  of 
his  well-to-do  house  into  marrying  him.  The 
drawing-room,  he  thought,  would  finish  me, 
and  I  tried  hard  to  look  surprised  and  pleas- 
ed. Neat  and  precise,  white  walls  hung  with 
water-color  drawings  in  gilt  frames  at  equal 
distances  ;  easy-chairs  with  white  macassars 
looking  like  little  shrouds  on  their  backs; 
little  tables  about  with  well -bound  books 
upon  them ;  in  the  vases  dried  grass ;  here 
and  there  some  Japanese  fans  as  the  sole 
concession  to  the  reigning  cheap  and  frivo- 
lous taste  of  the  day.  Over  the  chimney- 
piece  there  was  a  very  large  glass  in  a  hand- 
some gilt  frame.  I  hated  myself  for  not 
liking  what  he  and  hundreds  of  others,  no 
doubt,  would  call  a  comfortable  home  for 
all  one's  life ;  but  I  felt  that  if  I  went  to 
live  in  that  house  with  James  for  my  hus- 
band, and  those  poor  little  girls  with  whom 
I  should  not  be  allowed  to  do  as  I  liked  for 
my  step-children,  I  should  either  go  melan- 
choly mad  or  commit  some  awful  crime.  Yet 
he  looked  round  with  all  the  pride  of  owner- 
ship, and  said,  with  half-shy  self-congratu- 
lation, that  he  had  got  on,  that  he  was  richer 
than  he  had  been  in  the  old  days  in  Wales. 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  9! 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  asked,  "  when  I 
told  you  I  had  just  three  hundred  a  year? 
Why,  I  thought  it  fairly  comfortable  then." 
He  dropped  his  voice,  though  we  were  quite 
alone.  The  governess  and  the  children  were 
in  the  dining-room  beneath,  seeing  that  the 
pound-cake  came  up  with  the  tea,  perhaps. 
"  It  is  nearer  three  thousand  now,"  he  add- 
ed— "more,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  I  answered  ;  "  it  is  so 
pleasant  to  hear  of  one's  friends  growing 
rich."  He  cleared  his  throat;  he  looked 
horribly  nervous  ;  he  pulled  out  a  large 
white  handkerchief  and  passed  it  slowly 
along  his  forehead.  Something  like  fright 
overtook  me ;  I  crossed  the  room  quickly 
and  stopped  before  one  of  the  water-color 
drawings,  blue  and  gray  with  some  patches 
of  green  on  it ;  that  was  all  I  knew  it  to  be. 

"  Surely,  I  know  that  place  ?"  I  said,  in  a 
voice  of  deepest  interest. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  impatient- 
ly; "it  is  one  of  poor  Amy's  landscapes." 
Poor  Amy,  of  course,  was  his  wife. 

"  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  landscapes 
are  very  much  alike  ?"  I  asked.  "  Nature 
has  only  a  certain  number  of  varieties.  One 
bit  of  beach  is  a  good  deal  like  another  bit 
of  beach.  Then  there  is  the  typical  English 


92  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

view — fields  dotted  with  big  trees,  here  and 
there  a  comfortable-looking  house  or  a  pict- 
uresque cottage  ;  perhaps  there  is  a  stream- 
let running  through  the  middle,  with  nice 
little  curves  and  vegetation  and  an  accom- 
paniment of  low  hills  in  the  distance,  that 
surely  might  be  called  the  Englishman's 
own  landscape,  and — "  I  had  been  talking 
against  time.  Here  luckily  the  door  opened 
and  tea  was  brought  in,  tea  with  thin  bread- 
and-butter  and  pound-cake.  The  governess 
and  children  followed  meekly ;  it  was  like  a 
procession.  James  became  almost  agitated 
in  watching  the  arrangement  of  the  cups; 
he  looked  quite  anxiously  at  the  governess 
as  she  poured  out  the  tea  in  a  careful,  pre- 
cise manner  that  had  withal  an  uncertainty 
in  it.  It  was  clear  that  afternoon  tea  in  the 
drawing-room,  perhaps  afternoon  tea  at  all 
in  that  house,  was  an  event.  James  asked 
the  governess  if  there  ought  not  to  have 
been  a  table-cloth  (the  things  had  been 
brought  in  on  a  large  silver  tray) ;  he  told 
the  children,  who  had  looked  on  in  awe 
while  we  drank  our  tea,  to  be  careful  not  to 
drop  crumbs  on  the  carpet,  when  finally,  as 
a  treat,  they  were  given  a  bit  of  cake.  I 
watched  them  eat  that  cake,  those  white- 
faced  children  in  frills  and  tails  ;  they  did  it 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  93 

solemnly,  holding  their  plates  under  their 
chins.  They  behaved  as  if  the  whole  busi- 
ness were  a  function — I  am  not  sure  that 
they  did  not  think  it  had  something  to  do 
with  religion. 

Happily  for  me  the  clock  struck  six.  I 
started  up,  saying  I  must  go  that  very  mo- 
ment ;  might  I  ask  them  to  send  for  a  han- 
som ?  I  looked  at  the  governess  in  a  smil- 
ing but  positive  manner.  Used  to  being 
ruled,  she  rose  instantly  and  rang  the  bell 
before  James  had  the  wit  to  invent  any  ex- 
cuse that  would  give  us  another  minute  to- 
gether. The  hansom  was  announced.  I 
gave  one  child  my  glove  to  button.  James 
offered  to  do  it,  but  I  shook  my  head,  said 
good-bye  to  them  all  round.  I  would  have 
kissed  the  children,  but  feared  it  might  be 
taken  as  a  sign  of  unusual  interest.  In  an- 
other moment  I  was  in  the  cab  ;  the  doors 
shut  with  a  bang  ;  my  spirits  rose  at  the 
sound ;  I  nodded  and  laughed  a  good-bye 
at  James,  and  in  another  moment  felt  as  if  I 
were  driving  away  from  my  possible  tomb. 

All  that  evening  I  sat  and  thought  of 
Bombay,  of  you,  of  the  happy  days  at  Poo- 
na,  of  the  long  evenings  when  we  sat  in 
your  drawing-room  by  the  window,  that 
opened  onto  the  terrace  with  the  awning 


94  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

over  it,  and  talked  far  into  the  night.  You 
were  so  happy  then  ;  I  can  see  you  now  in 
your  white  dress,  and  hear  you  say,  "  Oh, 
Madge  !"  when  my  wild  spirits  carried  me 
away.  Tom's  merry  laugh,  too  ;  how  it 
rings  in  my  ears —  "  All  over  and  finished, 
over  and  finished,"  I  have  said  to  myself 
many  a  time,  wondering  if  it  was  all  a  dream. 
There  is  one  evening  that  always  comes 
back  to  me  when  I  sit  and  think — a  long, 
sultry  evening  when  we  sat  as  usual  on  our 
low  chairs  round  the  wide-open  windows, 
and  took  in  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  the 
hum  of  the  insects,  the  breath  of  that  dear 
summer-time.  It  seemed  too  much  to  bear 
— the  stillness,  the  hush,  the  beauty ;  it  was 
as  though  the  world  in  dreamy  rapture  had 
stood  still.  I  got  up  and  walked  softly  about 
the  room,  peering,  half  doubtfully,  into  the 
dusky  corners,  lest  some  strange  shadow 
lurked  there.  You  called  me  restless,  and 
told  me  to  go  and  play.  I  crossed  to  the 
piano ;  it  stood  far  back  at  the  other  end, 
from  the  window,  by  the  white-covered  sofa, 
with  the  shaded  lamp  near  it.  It  seems 
absurd ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  that  lamp- 
shade. It  is  like  part  of  a  story  to  me ;  on 
it  was  painted  a  scene  from  "  Faust."  I  sat 
down  and  played  a  wild  gypsy  dance  that 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  95 

made  one's  blood  tingle  with  excitement; 
it  conjured  up  a  picture  of  dark  faces  and 
happy  laughter,  of  castanets  and  streaming 
ribbons.  I  turned  and  told  you  so,  and 
Mark  Cuthbertson  —  he  was  always  there, 
do  you  remember?— said,  in  his  laughing, 
gibing  way,  that  imagination  was  a  delicious 
land  into  which  idle  folk  with  little  to  do 
retreated.  I  laughed  and  went  on,  all  the 
happier  for  his  mockery.  You  told  me  to 
sing,  and  I  did — the  jewel-song  from  "  Faust " 
— perhaps  the  lamp-shade  had  suggested  it 
— and  then  something  reminded  me  of 

"When  that  time  steals  our  years  away." 

I  began  it,  but  could  not  go  on,  for  the  tears 
came  to  my  eyes  ;  they  trickled  down  my 
cheeks,  though  in  the  dim  light  no  one 
guessed  it.  I  got  up  and  went  back  to  you 
with  something  like  despair  in  my  heart, 
despair,  because  I  was  so  happy,  and  some 
fiend  kept  whispering  to  me,  "  It  will  soon 
be  over — soon  be  over." 

It  seems  like  a  lifetime  since  those  days, 
yet  it  is  only  a  few  years.  Oh,  my  poor 
Nellie,  if  Death,  coveting  one  of  that  happy 
group,  had  but  taken  me,  and  left  your  loved 
one  with  you,  what  a  blessed  thing  it  would 
have  been  for  us  both  !  For  my  world  was 


96  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

at  its  brightest  then.  A  strange  happiness 
filled  the  air,  and  all  things  seemed  too  good 
to  be  true,  too  beautiful  to  be  real.  Some- 
times since  I  have  thought  that  there  should 
be  something  in  our  greatest  happiness  that 
unconsciously  killed,  so  that  no  sorrow  fol- 
lowed on  it,  no  bitterness  found  us  more, 
and  the  happiness  would  be  ours  for  all 
eternity,  since  nothing  could  take  it  from  us. 
Is  it  not  always  twelve  by  the  clock  that 
stops  at  noon ;  and  are  not  the  strange  eyes 
of  the  Sphinx  for  ever  and  ever  open  wide 
and  staring  over  the  great  sands,  though  all 
the  centuries  pass  and  all  the  nations  die  ? 
Oh,  to  have  had  my  heart  lulled  with  that 
great  content  in  it,  my  lips  grow  cold  with 
the  laughter  of  happiness  upon  them,  my 
eyes  dimmed  before  they  had  ever  looked 
on  sorrow.  .  .  .  But  to  go  back.  Mark  Cuth- 
bertson  scoffed  at  me.  He  could  not  under- 
stand ;  what  was  there  in  a  song  to  make 
one  tremble,  or  in  twilight  to  affect  one  ? 
We  talked  of  human  happiness.  You  said 
it  hung  so  entirely  on  human  beings  it  could 
never  be  secure.  He  answered  you,  curtly, 
"  Yours  does  ;  mine  does  not." 
I  could  not  bear  to  hear  him  say  it,  though 
why  I  did  not  know.  I  got  up  and  walked 
about  in  the  dim  room  behind  us.  You 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  97 

called  me  restless  again,  and  he  declared, 
half-laughing,  half-serious,  that  it  did  not  do 
to  indulge  in  a  pleasant  state  of  feeling  too 
long — it  unnerved  one  afterwards  ;  and  then 
he  wondered,  perhaps  on  purpose,  if  there 
were  any  scorpions  about,  and  we  got  up  in 
alarm,  for  we  were  always  in  terror  of  them. 
Tom  stood  with  his  arm  round  your  waist, 
thinking  it  was  too  dark  to  be  observed,  but 
Mark  saw  it,  and  said  good-night  in  a  voice 
that  was  half -amused,  half -reproving,  as 
though  mentally  he  had  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. But  he  held  my  hand  for  a  moment 
as  if  he  were  going  to  say  something,  and 
then  remembered  we  were  not  alone.  .  .  . 

All  that  night  the  scent  of  flowers  filled 
my  room.  I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking 
how  good  it  would  be  to  die,  there  on  that 
soft  night  with  my  heart  brimful  of  happiness 
I  did  not  comprehend.  ...  I  get  up  from 
writing.  ...  I  have  been  lying  down,  living 
those  days  and  nights  over  again.  I  thought 
them  over  and  over  that  night,  after  the  visit 
to  Gower  Street,  and  forgot  James  Harrison 
altogether.  I  forgot  him  the  next  day  and 
the  next,  and  then  there  came  a  letter — a 
careful,  neat  letter,  with  an  offer  of  marriage 
well  set  out.  It  was  written  with  his  best 
steel  pen,  and  in  his  most  business-like  hand ; 


98  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

but  there  was  something  in  it  that  touched 
me,  that  went  to  my  heart,  and  made  me 
hate  myself  for  my  conduct  in  days  gone  by, 
and  that  showed  me  how  much,  in  spite  of 
all  I  had  done,  he  loved  me  still.  I  threw 
it  down,  and,  putting  my  face  on  the  sofa 
cushion,  sobbed  for  shame  and  hatred  of 
myself,  seeing  clearly  all  I  had  done  in  the 
past,  and  knowing  well  that  I  could  never 
make  amends.  And  all  the  time,  Nell,  all 
through  that  hour  of  bitter  repentance,  be- 
fore my  eyes  I  saw  you  in  the  drawing-room 
at  Poona,  and  lived  again  through  that  night 
when  the  happiness  of  life  had  been  so  great 
that  I  had  longed  to  die  before  the  dear  world 
round  me  changed  and  I  had  learned  to  suf- 
fer. For  I  have  suffered,  in  the  years  since, 
bitterest  pain  and  keenest  sorrow — more 
than  that,  burning  shame.  I  may  be  able  to 
tell  you  ;  I  do  not  know.  ...  I  walked  up  and 
down  with  James's  letter  in  my  hand,  won- 
dering what  to  say  to  him.  I  could  not  de- 
ceive him  any  longer,  cost  him  and  me  what 
it  would.  At  last  I  sat  down  and  wrote  him 
a  long,  long  letter.  Before  it  was  half  done 
I  knew  it  would  be  impossible  to  send  it ; 
but  still  I  went  on  and  on  as  if  for  my  own 
eyes  to  see  written  down  the  beginning  of 
my  own  heart's  history.  I  say  the  begin- 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  99 

ning,  for  there  is  more  to  follow,  though  it 
is  far  apart  from  James.  This  letter  I  could 
not  send  to  him  I  send  to  you.  It  will  make 
those  long-ago  days  plain  to  you  at  last. 
I  am  glad  it  was  written,  since  it  will  do 
this ;  but  don't  say  I  ought  to  marry  him, 
that  I  owe  it  to  him  to  make  what  repara- 
tion I  can  for  the  past — reparation  by  long 
personal  sacrifice  would  only  rouse  some 
demon  in  me-  to  do  worse  than  I,  my  very 
own  self,  would  do.  I  could  make  repara- 
tion, though  it  took  the  form  of  burning 
agony,  for  a  man  I  loved  ;  but  not  to  James 
Harrison.  I  am  not  strong  enough  for  that, 
or  good  enough.  Let  him  go.  He  will  find 
some  one  better  than  I,  who  will  prize  the 
love  from  which  I  shrink;  and  meanwhile — 
but  I  cannot  go  on.  I  hate  myself  so  much, 
and  dread  lest  you  will  hate  me,  too,  after 
reading  this,  and  yet  it  does  not  tell  you  the 
worst  of  me.  M. 


VIII 

TO    SIR    NOEL    FRANKS 

>EAR  SIR  NOEL,— Thank  you 
for  the  lovely  flowers.  I  have 
been  arranging  them  in  the 
Indian  pots  you  admired. 

I  am  sorry  we  did  not  get  to 
the  Bullers,  but  we  were  so  tired  after  a  very 
long  dinner  that  we  came  home  instead  of 
going  on  anywhere  else.  Perhaps  we  shall 
meet  at  the  Geographical  Society  on  Wednes- 
day. I  hope  you  will  not  be  too  learned  for 
ordinary  capacities. 

Yours  sincerely, 

MADGE  BROOKE. 


IX 


TO   MRS.   HAMILTON 

Wednesday. 

EAREST  NELLIE,— You  are 
right.  Mark  Cuthbertson — he 
is  the  key  to  my  history. 

I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him, 
for  in  some  strange  way,  though 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  hate  or  love  him 
now,  he  dominates  everything  I  do  or  say. 
He  is  never  wholly  out  of  my  thoughts,  and 
yet  it  is  possible  that  we  may  never  even 
meet  again.  I  will  tell  you  about  him  from 
the  beginning  as  clearly  and  coherently  as 
I  can. 

It  is  a  difficult  story  to  relate,  but  it  will 
be  a  relief  to  write  it  out,  as  it  was  a  relief 
to  write  that  long  letter  to  James  Harrison 
— the  letter  that  never  went. 

Mark  came  to  Daffodil  one  vacation  with 
John,  years  ago  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
Probably  you  do  not  remember — I  think 


102  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

you  were  away,  or  else  we  did  not  see  each 
other  often  in  those  days.  He  was  eigh- 
teen and  I  ten,  and  to  me  he  was  a  grown 
man.  He  romped  and  played  with  me,  and 
was  the  best  companion  in  the  world.  I 
cried  the  day  he  went  away,  though  I  soon 
forgot  him.  He  never  came  again.  He 
passed  wholly  out  of  my  life  till  John  and  I 
went  to  India.  We  landed  at  Bombay,  and 
the  first  person  we  met  was  Mark  Cuthbert- 
son.  He  was  artist  to  an  illustrated  paper, 
as  you  know.  I  can  recall  the  expression 
of  his  face,  the  tone  of  his  voice,  his  first 
words  as  well  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday. 
John  had  vanished  for  a  moment,  and  I  was 
alone,  strange  and  awkward.  Suddenly  a  tall, 
rather  handsome  man  came  up  to  me — 

"  Surely  you  are —  '  I  think  he  was  go- 
ing to  say  Miss  Brooke,  for  he  hesitated, 
and  then,  as  if  the  idea  of  such  formality 
were  absurd,  he  added,  quickly,  with  a  smile, 
"Madge?"  He  said  it  as  though  he  had 
expected  I  should  understand  that  he  had 
been  waiting  for  me.  In  some  vague  way 
I  did  understand;  in  some  strange,  helpless 
manner  I  saw  for  a  moment  into  the  future, 
a  misty  view  that  vanished  and  left  me  si- 
lent and  afraid,  but  I  did  not  know  why  or 
of  what.  Then  the  old  habit  returned,  the 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  103 

habit  of  accepting  life  as  it  comes — and  at 
the  moment,  he  was  life — life  with  the  mem- 
ory of  a  past  in  which  we  had  been  good 
friends  and  easy  comrades.  "You  don't 
mean  that  you  have  forgotten  me  ?"  he  ask- 
ed. "  I  am  Mark  Cuthbertson  ;  don't  you 
remember  what  fun  we  had  at  Daffodil  when 
you  were  a  little  girl?  I  knew  you  were 
coming  by  this  boat.  Where  is  Jack?"  It 
was  so  that  it  all  began. 

He  was  always  with  me  in  Bombay  just 
as  he  was  in  Poona.  He  came  every  day, 
all  day,  half  the  night.  There  was  in  his 
being  with  us  a  naturalness,  a  matter- of- 
courseness,  that  admitted  of  no  question. 
He  and  John  were  the  dearest  friends  in 
the  world — had  been  all  their  lives;  were 
brothers  in  all  but  name.  It  would  have 
been  strange,  especially  after  their  long  part- 
ing, if  they  had  not  been  together  as  much 
as  possible,  and  when  John  had  to  go  off 
farther  about  the  railway,  and  I  was  left 
with  you  at  Poona,  I  think  it  was  a  comfort 
to  him  that  Mark  was  near  and  able  to 
look  after  me.  You  liked  him,  your  hus- 
band did,  we  all  did.  Do  you  remember 
how  thoroughly  he  did  as  he  chose  with  us 
all,  though  we  could  none  of  us  do  as  we 
chose  with  him,  or  put  a  single  social  shac- 


IO4  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

kle  on  him,  and  how  handsome  he  was  in 
those  days,  how  unconventional  and  differ- 
ent from  most  of  the  men  who  hung  about 
us? 

Poona  is  a  dangerously  fascinating  place, 
dear  Nell.  Perhaps  it  is  the  mangoes,  the 
wonderful  profusion  of  roses,  the  lake,  the 
determination  of  every  one  to  get  all  the 
enjoyment  possible  out  of  surroundings.  I 
do  not  know,  but  life  there  is  not  a  matter 
of  work,  of  thought,  of  study,  but  rather  of 
beauty,  of  happiness,  of  indolence  and  en- 
joyment of  living.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  I 
did  not  then,  but  insensibly  I  felt  it ;  and 
that  was  more  dangerous  than  thinking  it 
and  being  awake.  You  were  taken  up  at 
that  time  with  your  own  life,  with  Tom,  with 
your  baby,  with  all  that  belongs  to  life's 
happiness,  so  that  you  did  not  notice  what 
was  going  on  with  me,  and  something  held 
my  lips  fast.  There  was  nothing  to  conceal, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  talk  to  Mark.  The 
beginning  of  my  madness  was  on  me,  I  sup- 
pose. He  and  I  together  only  talked  of 
books  and  politics  and  pictures,  mostly  of 
pictures  and  of  subjects  for  them,  and  of 
music— the  usual  talk  of  people  in  our  posi- 
tion thrown  much  with  each  other.  Senti- 
ment we  never  talked ;  he  told  me  that  he 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  10$ 

was  poor ;  that  he  did  not  believe  in  love ; 
that  he  had  a  dread  of  matrimony ;  that  he 
did  not  care  much  for  human  beings,  though 
he  was  fond  of  John.  Women,  I  learned 
instinctively,  he  did  not  believe  in — he  liked 
to  look  at  pretty  faces,  but  he  did  not  trust 
them ;  he  was  not  able,  as  a  rule,  to  make  a 
woman  his  friend.  He  thought  women  in- 
ferior to  men,  that  they  should  be  in  sub- 
jection to  them,  should  give  way  to  them, 
should  be  content  with  their  own  part  in  the 
world — and  their  part  was  first  to  be  pretty 
and  submissive  and  charming,  and  then  as 
they  grew  older  to  be  drudges,  or  if  not 
exactly  that,  to  look  after  home,  to  mother 
children,  and  leave  the  rest  of  life  to  the 
stronger  sex.  His  views  regarding  women 
were  a  good  deal  like  James  Harrison's. 
Only  the  one  man  had  a  world  of  power 
over  me,  and  the  other  had  none ;  one  was 
clever  and  fascinating,  and  one  was  not; 
from  one  the  least  control  in  the  world  was 
not  to  be  borne,  and  from  the  other  it  was 
sweetness  not  to  be  described.  I  was  at 
the  age  when  masterfulness  in  a  man  strikes 
a  woman  as  manliness,  and  gives  him  at 
once  a  hold  upon  her.  Now  that  I  am  old- 
er and  see  clearly,  I  know  well  enough  how 
to  measure  the  strength  of  the  masterful 


106  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

man — it  does  not  take  long.  I  know  his 
inward  grudgingness  towards  women,  his 
shallowness,  his  unconscious  fear  of  being 
found  out.  Yet  even  now  I  believe  I  could 
bend  my  neck  thankfully  to  be  Mark's  slave, 
and  think  the  slavery  sweetest  life.  I  loathe 
myself  for  it,  but  it  is  so,  dear  Nell. 

He  gave  me  some  lessons  in  sketching; 
it  is  always  a  dangerous  thing  to  take  les- 
sons in  anything  from  a  fascinating  man, 
and  in  sketching  out-of-doors  with  the  man- 
goes shading  us  and  the  rose-breath  filling 
the  air,  and  the  sunshine  and  the  blue  sky 
and  the  delicious  sense  of  Nature  at  her 
highest  noon  that  India  always  gives — what 
else  could  one  of  two  at  least  do  but  fall  in 
love  ?  We  took  long  rides  together,  too 
for  I  sat  badly,  and  he  wanted  to  improve 
me,  so  we  sauntered  and  cantered  beside  the 
lake  that  seemed  to  be  forever  conscious  of 
its  own  beauty,  and  rejoicing  beneath  the 
heavenly  blue  it  reflected.  He  hung  about 
me  always,  and  controlled  me  altogether,  and 
I  rejoiced,  as  a  woman  always  does,  in  being 
controlled  by  a  clever  man  ;  even  you  saw 
enough  of  him  to  know  that  he  was  clever, 
though  he  was  too  indolent  to  gain  the  suc- 
cess that  was  his  due.  John  was  devoted 
to  him,  and  often  while  we  were  at  Bombay 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  IOJ 

sat  up  far  into  the  night  talking  with  him. 
He  talked  well  on  most  subjects,  and  had 
an  original  way  of  looking  at  things,  a  pleas- 
ant cynicism,  a  carelessness  about  the  emo- 
tional side  of  life,  though  he  awoke  it  in  all 
about  him,  that  fascinated  me  entirely. 

John  was  delighted  that  Mark  and  I  were 
good  companions.  He  had  a  boundless  be- 
lief in  his  friend,  and  thought  it  an  excellent 
thing  that  there  in  India  a  man  older  than 
myself — he  was  seven-and-twenty — clever, 
and  so  on,  should  in  a  brotherly  fashion  look 
after  me.  He  knew  that  Mark  had  not  love- 
making  or  matrimony  in  his  mind,  though  if 
it  had  been  otherwise  he  would,  I  think,  have 
been  glad  enough.  John  himself  has  always 
been  much  more  taken  up  with  the  intellect- 
ual than  the  human  side  of  life,  and  he  for- 
gets how  much  the  majority  of  people  con- 
cern themselves  about  the  latter.  Dear  old 
John  !  He  has  never  been  in  love  yet,  save 
with  you  when  you  were  ten,  dear  Nell.  I 
hope  he  will  one  day  love  some  dear  woman 
who  will  understand  how  true  and  great  a 
heart  she  has  won. 

But  do  you  understand  now  how  my  re- 
lations with  Mark  came  about,  how  easily 
things  drifted  ?  It  was  a  happy  time  for  me; 
a  strange  new  life,  and  before  it  there  seemed 


108  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

to  be  a  happy,  hazy  future.  But  what  had  I 
to  do  with  that  ?  The  present  was  sufficient; 
I  troubled  about  nothing,  but  just  took  the 
days  as  they  came ;  and  all  were  spent  with 
him,  or  were  full  of  thoughts  of  him.  So  it 
was  that,  without  any  love-making,  without  a 
single  word  that  my  heart  could  lay  hold  of, 
we  yet  drew  very  close  indeed,  and  seemed 
unable  to  live  apart. 

Once  I  made  him  angry,  for  our  relations 
were  distinct  enough  in  a  way.  He  was  au- 
tocrat, and  I  obeyed  him.  It  seemed  natu- 
ral when  I  remembered  that,  years  ago  at 
Daffodil,  he  had  only  played  with  me  on  con- 
dition that  I  was  good.  I  offended  him  that 
afternoon  at  Bombay.  I  forget  why ;  but  he 
did  not  come  near  me  again.  And  the  next 
day,  when  he  dropped  in  at  breakfast-time 
to  show  John  a  series  of  sketches  he  had 
made,  he  hardly  spoke  to  me.  It  nearly 
broke  my  heart.  In  his  sight  and  in  John's 
I  held  my  head  high,  but  secretly  I  wept 
floods  of  tears.  It  seemed  as  if  the  world 
was  at  an  end. 

That  evening,  the  evening  of  the  day  on 
which  he  had  shown  the  sketches  to  John, 
there  was  a  ball  at  General  Durham's.  I 
wore  a  white  dress ;  I  put  white  flowers  in 
my  hair.  I  knew  that  my  face  was  white, 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  109 

too,  and  my  heart  was  a  load  too  heavy  for 
mortal  woman  to  carry.  I  stood  by  John's 
side  watching  the  dancers.  He  went  off  with 
his  partner  and  left  me  alone.  I  saw  you  in 
the  midst  of  a  group  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  but  could  not  drag  myself  to  you. 
Some  one  asked  me  to  dance — two  or  three 
did — but  I  shook  my  head,  and  sat  still  and 
cold  and  sad  in  the  corner  in  which  John 
had  left  me.  Strange  chords  in  my  heart 
vibrated  to  the  music,  the  lights  blinded  me. 
I  felt  like  a  woman  slowly  turning  to  stone. 
Above  me  there  seemed  to  be  a  heavy  cloud 
in  which  was  the  whole  weight  of  the  dreary 
heaven.  It  was  coming  down  —  down  on 
my  head.  Soon  I  should  fall  beneath  it, 
crushed;  yet,  still  I  sat  blankly  staring  at 
the  ball-room,  and,  as  I  hoped,  making  no 
sign  of  the  deadening  that  was  going  on 
within  me.  All  this,  Nell,  and  yet  I  give  you 
my  word  that  I  did  not  know  it  was  love. 
It  is  long  before  a  girl,  and  a  simple  one,  as 
I  was  then — though  I  had  already  treated 
one  lover  badly,  and  could  remember  the 
protestations  of  others  since  my  arrival  in 
India — lets  herself  know  what  her  malady 
is ;  long  enough  before  she  dares  say  to  her- 
self, "  I  love  him."  Though  her  heart  beats 
quickly  when  she  hears  a  step,  and  all  the 


110  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

wide  world  changes  at  the  sound  of  a  voice, 
she  remains  a  mystery,  a  secret  from  herself, 
a  creature  of  new  aches  and  joys  and  indefi- 
nite longings  till  he  speaks,  till  he  bids  her 
awake  to  a  new  life  and  be  blessed  in  it,  or 
till  some  shock  makes  her  understand. 

Suddenly,  for  I  did  not  see  him  coming, 
Mark  was  before  me. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  asked.  "  You 
are  not  dancing  ?" 

"No,  I  cannot;  I  am  tired,"  I  answered. 
He  looked  at  me  wonderingly. 

"Let  us  go  into  the  garden,"  he  said;  "we 
shall  be  alone  there." 

With  a  long  sigh  of  relief  I  put  my  arm 
through  his,  and  without  another  word  we 
left  the  ball-room.  The  garden  was  deserted. 
There  was  a  long,  winding  path-way,  thick 
with  flowers  and  palms  on  either  side,  and 
then,  of  course,  the  inevitable  mango  grove. 
We  went  towards  it.  The  air  was  still  and 
overladen  with  perfume;  the  ground  was 
strewn  with  petals  from  the  rose-bushes. 
The  darkness  seemed  to  have  gathered  with 
strange  intensity  into  corners  and  beneath 
trees.  The  light  from  the  ball-room  did  not 
reach  us,  but  we  saw  each  other's  faces 
clearly  against  a  background  of  dim  foliage. 
We  went  up  and  down  beneath  the  mangoes 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  III 

without  a  word.  It  seemed  at  first  as  if  we 
must  each  think  silently,  and  to  speak  would 
be  impossible.  At  last  he  turned  and  asked 
me,  half  mockingly, 

"  Have  we  made  it  up  ?" 

I  could  not  answer,  but  just  nodded  my 
head,  and  we  went  on  again  in  silence.  Then 
all  at  once  he  stopped,  under  a  lamp  that 
twinkled  by  a  sort  of  summer-house,  and 
looked  at  me,  at  my  face,  at  my  trembling 
hands,  and  slowly  down  at  my  white  dress 
and  the  white  flowers  already  drooping.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  have  done  to  yourself," 
he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  more  to  himself  than 
to  me,  "but  you  are  quite  beautiful  to-night." 
It  sent  a  thrill  of  joy  through  me ;  it  was 
compensation  for  all  the  weary  hours.  I 
never  dreamed  of  his  thinking  me  beautiful, 
of  his  even  looking  at  me  at  all.  No  words 
can  say  how  much  I  thought  of  him,  how 
little  I  thought  of  myself.  "We  won't  quar- 
rel any  more."  he  said.  "  It  is  too  foolish;" 
and  we  turned  towards  the  mangoes  again. 
But  the  silence  was  sweet  enough  now,  and 
all  the  world  had  changed.  Behind  every 
dark  corner  there  hid  some  strange  secret, 
for  the  joy  of  which  I  was  not  yet  ready. 
Overhead  the  sky  had  lifted,  the  weight  had 
gone  from  my  heart,  and  instead  there  had 


112  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

fallen  on  it  a  great  content — it  was  like 
drinking  in  life  when  life  had  nearly  gone. 
All  at  once  I  slipped,  and  should  have  fall- 
en, but  that  he  pulled  me  up  and  held  me 
firmly.  He  tried  as  he  did  so  to  see  into 
my  eyes,  but  I  could  not  raise  them  even  in 
that  dim  light. 

"You  were  nearly  down,"  he  said,  ten- 
derly; "what  were  you  thinking  of — our 
quarrel  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  helplessly;  "I  am  so 
sorry — "  » 

"We  will  never  be  foolish  again,"  he 
whispered,  and  held  me  in  his  arms  for  half 
a  moment  and  kissed  me  ;  "  we  will  be  much 
wiser."  He  spoke  as  if  all  our  lives  we  were 
going  to  be  together.  I  could  not  be  angry 
at  what  he  had  done,  or  resent  it ;  all  power 
to  guide  myself  seemed  to  have  gone.  Ev- 
erything had  changed,  it  was  as  though  we 
had  entered  another  world  out  there  in  the 
Indian  garden.  Behind  us  the  gates  of  the 
old  world  had  shut,  and  in  the  new  one  there 
walked  only  one  man  and  one  woman — he 
and  I. 

He  grew  colder  after  that  night,  more 
guarded  in  his  manner,  I  thought  it  was,  be- 
cause he  was  ashamed,  as  I  was ;  but  look- 
ing back  now  by  the  light  of  after  years  I 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  113 

understand.  He  tried  to  impress  on  me 
more  clearly  than  before  that  he  had  no  in- 
tention of  marrying.  But  what  was  that,  or 
what  was  anything  in  the  future  to  me  ?  I 
cared  for  nothing  but  that  most  happy  pres- 
ent, and  could  not  look  beyond  it. 

When  we  left  India  he  managed  to  get 
sent  to  Malta;  it  was  just  when  the  Indian 
troops  were  going  there,  and  all  Europe's 
eyes  were  turned  in  that  direction.  He 
went  by  our  ship,  and  for  those  long  days 
at  sea  we  were  thrown  together  with  the 
completeness  that  only  happens  on  board 
ship.  I  do  not  know,  Nell — into  another's 
heart  one  cannot  see— but  I  think  he  did 
love  me  then — he  could  not  keep  away  from 
me ;  oh,  he  must  have  loved  me,  Nellie ;  I 
know  he  did  then  and  in  the  dear  months 
afterwards,  and  if  I  lost  him,  it  was  my  fault 
and  mine  only.  I  am  glad  it  came  into  my 
heart — the  great  love;  the  overwhelming 
blind  passion  that  did  come  for  him  later; 
the  price  has  been  hard  to  pay;  the  years 
long  and  bitter  since,  but  life  without  it 
would  have  been  a  dull  and  sorry  play. 
For  all  its  folly,  all  its  mistakes,  all  its  sin, 
I  would  not  have  missed  my  life  to  be  a 
saint  in  heaven. 

I  think  it  dawned  on  John  while  we  were 


114  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

on  board  the  Deccan  that  Mark  and  I  were 
fond  of  each  other ;  but  he  looked  surprised 
when  nothing  came  of  it,  and  he  used  to 
watch  me  narrowly  with  a  half-puzzled  man- 
ner. Then  he  evidently  concluded  it  was 
only  friendship,  and,  having  so  arranged  it 
in  his  mind,  went  back  to  his  own  work  and 
was  blind  enough  for  long  to  come. 

At  Malta  we  left  Mark  and  came  on  alone. 
I  remember  the  keen  pain  of  parting — pain 
that  was  sweet  enough,  for  it  showed  us  how 
much  we  were  to  each  other ;  but  it  seemed 
as  if  lives  so  closely  bound  as  ours  could 
never  wholly  be  apart  again.  I  do  not  think 
they  can  be,  either — I  feel  that  still — though 
it  is  getting  to  be  years  since  I  saw  his  face. 
He  gave  me  a  long,  long  look  as  he  said 
good-bye.  "  We  will  meet  in  England,  dear," 
he  said.  He  had  never  called  me  dear  be- 
fore. I  remembered  that  all  the  way  home, 
and  again  and  again  in  my  heart  listened  to 
the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  said  it — all  the 
way  home,  the  way  that  took  me  farther  and 
farther  from  him,  and  from  the  happiest  days 
of  my  whole  life.  In  some  frightened  way  I 
knew  then  what  had  happened  to  me,  knew 
that  I  loved  him,  that  he  was  life  of  my  life 
— as  he  is  still,  Nell,  and  will  be  always, 
bitter  or  sweet,  greatest  pain  or  greatest  joy, 


A    WORLDLY  WOMAN  115 

but  still  very  life  of  life  till  death  draws  down 
the  curtain  and  the  lights  are  all  put  out. 

Oh,  Nell,  what  a  sentimental  fool  I  am, 
and  how  I  love  him  even  now — save  when  I 
hate  and  loathe  and  scorn  him ! 

You  shall  have  the  rest,  but  not  to-day. 
;It  is  more  difficult  to  explain — to  excuse. 

Jack  often  speaks  of  you,  dear.  I  wish 
you  could  come  for  a  bit  and  stay  with  us. 

MADGE. 


X 

TO   THE   SAME 

Saturday. 
,ES,  I  will  go  on,  dear  Nell. 

Mark  wrote  constantly  from 
Malta.  I  only  lived  from  letter 
to  letter,  though  there  were  no 
protestations  in  them,  no  words 
of  endearment ;  they  might  have  been  sent 
to  a  sister,  or  to  any  friend  he  knew  well. 
Yet  the  morning  that  brought  me  one  made 
the  whole  day  a  festival.  How  well  James 
Harrison  has  been  avenged  if  he  did  but 
know  it ! 

At  first  John  was  curious  about  Mark's 
letters,  but  when  he  had  seen  one  or  two  he 
was  satisfied.  He  did  not  suspect  a  love 
affair  because  a  man  and  woman  were  mod- 
erately intimate.  From  his  point  of  view, 
too,  Mark  was  a  sort  of  other  brother  to  me, 
and  that  he  might  be  anything  else  from 
mine  did  not  occur  to  him  after  his  sus- 


LOVE   LETTERS   OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN     Ii; 

picions  at  Malta  had  passed.  Besides,  for 
all  his  cleverness,  John  is  very  simple,  and 
never  suspects  people  of  living  lives  of  which 
they  give  no  account  to  those  immediately 
about  them  ;  and  this  is  the  key  to  his  con- 
duct throughout. 

In  October,  Mark  came  back,  and  then  we 
had  things  all  our  own  way.  He  had  deter- 
mined to  give  up  most  of  his  illustrating,  to 
take  a  studio,  and  do  serious  work.  There 
were  many  historical  subjects  he  wanted  to 
paint.  His  pictures  always  had  historical 
or  literary,  but  never  a  sentimental  interest. 
This  was,  I  think,  because  the  last  would 
have  given  a  certain  importance  to  women, 
and  he  looked  on  women  as  an  inferior  type 
of  humanity,  not  worth  the  serious  attention 
often  given  them.  I  told  you  this  in  my 
last  letter,  and  I  want  to  impress  it  upon 
you,  for  I  think  it  explains  him,  and  per- 
haps accounts  for  his  conduct  to  me.  He 
is  very  passionate,  and  cannot  help  being 
attracted  by  freshness  and  prettiness,  but  of 
higher  love  for  a  woman  he  is  incapable. 
He  liked  me  because  I  was  pretty,  and 
twenty.  When  the  effect  of  that  had  worn 
off  he  left  me.  He  would  talk  of  outside 
things  with  me,  but  nothing  I  said  regarding 
them,  or  that  any  woman  said,  had  weight 


Il8  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

with  him.  He  cannot  feel  it  possible  that 
women  ever  really  influence  the  intellectual 
lives  of  men,  though  he  thinks  it  well  that 
they  should  know  how  to  talk  a  certain 
amount  of  educated  small  talk — it  makes 
them  more  amusing  while  their  charm  lasts. 
Still,  talk  as  well  as  they  will,  there  is  no 
opinion  they  express  on  which  he  does  not 
think  man  should  firmly  put  his  foot  in  the 
long  run.  For  man  is  woman's  master,  and 
it  is  only  while  she  is  new  and  fresh  to  him 
that  she  is  to  be  humored,  to  have  her  ways 
and  whims  considered,  to  be  flattered  and 
caressed.  She  is  of  no  account  at  all  after- 
wards ;  she  may  be  allowed  to  live  in  the 
world,  but  that  is  all.  This  is  the  man  I 
have  loved,  Nell ;  the  man  for  whom  I  have 
spoiled  my  life,  and  made  most  things  on 
which  a  woman  builds  her  dearest  hopes 
impossible. 

But  to  go  on.  Mark  came  back  and  took 
a  studio.  It  belonged  to  a  cousin  of  his, 
Mrs.  Berry,  a  widow  with  grown-up  children ; 
it  was  at  the  end  of  a  long  garden,  away 
from  the  house  in  which  she  lived,  and  had 
a  separate  entrance  at  the  back,  so  that  his 
comings  and  goings  and  visitors  were  quite 
unknown  to  her.  He  would  not  have  taken 
it  had  it  been  otherwise ;  for  he  hated  being 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  119 

commented  on  in  any  way.  He  disliked 
relations,  too,  and  told  me  once  that  it  did 
not  "do  to  be  intimate  with  them,  they  al- 
ways interfered  with  you." 

The  Berrys  were  kindly  people,  generally 
anxious  about  money  matters;  and  Mrs. 
Berry  always  had  in  her  mind  the  placing 
out  in  the  world  of  her  many  sons,  for  whom 
Mark  had  a  sort  of  secret  contempt,  chiefly 
because  they  were  so  tall  and  pale  and 
speechless.  The  worst  of  them  all  was  that 
they  thought  it  showed  discrimination  of 
character  to  criticise  people,  finding  a  mod- 
erate amount  of  fault,  so  that  while  you  were 
with  them  you  always  had  the  feeling  that 
you  would  be  discussed  when  you  had  gone. 
Mark  had  once  lived  with  them,  and  knew 
them  well.  He  had  no  other  relations,  I 
think;  perhaps  this  was  why  John  and  he 
drew  so  close  as  boys,  and  when  they  were 
both  men  the  sentiment  of  youth  kept  them 
together.  There  was  little  else  in  common 
between  them,  though  it  was  years  before 
they  realized  this. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  happy  morning 
when  Mark  came  back.  He  came  to  us  the 
very  hour  he  arrived.  It  was  breakfast-time, 
and  John  was  at  home,  so  he  did  not  talk 
much  to  me,  but  the  look  in  his  eyes  was 


120  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

enough,  and  the  tone  in  which  he  said,  "  And 
Madge  ?"  when  he  let  go  John's  hand  to 
grasp  mine,  made  my  heart  leap  for  joy. 
He  was  handsomer  than  ever,  full  of  life  and 
fun ;  no  words  could  describe  his  attraction. 
You  remember  what  he  was  in  India,  and 
can  surely  understand  my  infatuation.  There 
was  about  him  a  daring,  a  strength,  a  gener- 
osity in  unexpected  ways,  a  certain  happy, 
careless  courtesy  that  carried  all  before  him. 
It  maddens  me  to  think  of  him.  Sometimes 
I  feel  that  he  is — that  he  must  be  everything 
good  and  true  and  manly.  Perhaps  there 
was  in  my  nature  that  which  brought  out  all 
the  worst  possibilities  in  his  ;  or  he  may  have 
misconstrued  something  I  said  and  did,  and 
judged  me  by  it ;  or  perhaps  the  Berrys,  whom 
I  knew  well  later  on,  unwittingly  made  re- 
marks that  gave  him  a  wrong  conception  of 
me;  and  yet  he  knew  me  long  before  they 
did. 

He  was  in  wonderful  spirits,  full  of  his 
studio,  of  pictures  he  was  going  to  paint,  of 
books  we  must  both  read,  of  John's  work,  of 
politics,  of  everything  that  was  going  on  in 
the  world.  That  was  a  part  of  his  great 
charm,  he  was  so  thoroughly  alive,  right 
down  to  his  finger-tips,  for  all  his  air  of  indo- 
lence and  leisure.  He  seemed  to  know  every- 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  121 

thing  that  was.  in  the  air  long  before  others 
talked  of  it ;  I  used  to  look  at  him  some- 
times, and  think  that  he  was  a  part  of  the 
universe,  and  in  touch  with  the  whole  of  it. 

You  will  wonder  at  my  alternations  of 
feeling,  but  by  them  you  must  measure  alike 
the  joy  he  gave  me  and  the  sorrow  and  bit- 
terness he  cost  me.  In  that  clear,  gray  Oc- 
tober that  brought  him  back,  the  world  was 
filled  with  a  new  life  that  intoxicated  me,  till 
I  hardly  knew  right  from  wrong,  or  black 
from  white,  or  anything  at  all  save  that  every 
day  I  saw  his  face  and  heard  his  voice ;  to- 
day, and  to-morrow,  and  for  endless  to-mor- 
rows, I  thought  the  story  would  be  the  same. 

"  I  shall  take  Madge  in  hand,"  he  said  to 
John ;  "  she  draws  very  well,  and  would  paint 
well,  too,  if  she  would  only  work.  We  must 
make  her." 

At  first  he  tried  to  come  only  when  John 
was  at  home,  but  this  could  not  go  on  if  we 
were  to  work  together ;  for  John  had  an  office 
at  Westminster,  and  went  to  it  regularly  an 
hour  after  breakfast,  and  did  not  return  till 
nearly  dinner-time.  All  day  long  I  was  left 
to  my  own  devices,  and  there  was  no  one 
(except  Aunt  Maria,  who  was  at  Daffodil)  to 
tell  me  the  conventional  things  I  ought  to 
do,  the  unconventional  things  I  ought  not  to 


122  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

do,  lest  the  world  should  put  a  false  con- 
struction on  them. 

Well,  Mark  used  to  come  in  the  morning 
after  John  had  gone,  and  we  went  into  the 
little  box-room  I  called  my  study,  to  paint, 
and  there  was  no  one  to  disturb  us.  I  do 
not  think  John  realized  how  much  we  were 
together — I  never  told  him  ;  something  kept 
my  lips  closed,  though,  mind,  had  it  occurred 
to  him  to  ask  me,  I  should  have  told  him. 
I  do  not  suppose  he  would  have  objected, 
for  he  was  devoted  to  Mark. 

We  really  worked  at  first ;  I  think  Mark 
had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  make  love  to 
me,  so  that  no  idea  of  wrong  entered  my 
head,  and  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  happiness 
of  life.  But  gradually  things  altered;  we 
might  be  friends  and  artists,  but  we  were 
man  and  woman,  too,  and  it  was  not  given  to 
us  to  be  different  from  the  rest  of  humanity. 
Do  people,  when  they  are  young  and  full  of 
life  and  happiness,  with  most  of  the  world's 
unknowns  before  them,  go  on  spending  long 
days  together  week  after  week  for  merely 
work  and  talk  of  work  ?  Not  often. 

I  think  we  struggled  with  Fate  or  Nature 
— call  it  which  you  will— and  tried  to  keep 
up  the  old  relations  as  long  as  possible.  We 
tried  to  work  steadily,  but  the  brushes  were 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  123 

too  often  laid  aside  ;  we  had  so  much  to  say. 
We  talked  of  ourselves;  we  were  jealous  and 
curious  ;  we  looked  at  each  other  long  and 
often,  and  then  were  half  ashamed;  our 
hands  met,  and  all  our  souls  knew  it.  The 
tone  of  his  voice,  the  sound  of  his  step,  the 
sight  of  his  face,  how  much  they  were  to  me ! 
I  counted  the  last  moments  before  he  came, 
they  were  so  long  in  going ;  the  last  before 
he  went,  they  seemed  to  fly  while  we  lingered 
over  our  parting  words.  It  could  not  go  on 
long — it  did  not. 

"  It  is  very  difficult  to  paint  in  this  little 
hole,"  he  said  one  afternoon,  when  we  went 
back  to  our  work  after  lunch ;  "  we  want  a 
studio  to  ourselves,"  he  laughed. 

"How  lovely  it  would  be,"  I  answered. 
"  I  have  never  even  been  inside  a  real  studio. 
I  should  so  like  to  see  one." 

"  To  see  a  studio  ?  Put  on  your  things 
and  come  and  see  mine ;  it  is  better  than  a 
box-room.  I  have  wanted  you  to  see  it;  we 
shall  never  work  here." 

I  hesitated. 

"  Make  haste,"  he  said.  "  Then  perhaps 
we  shall  be  able  to  do  a  little  there  before 
it  is  too  dark." 

"  Do  you  think  I  really  might  go  ?"  I  asked, 
doubtfully. 


124  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

"Of  course,"  he  answered;  "why  not? 
Every  one  goes  to  studios.  Besides,  it  is  in 
the  Berrys'  garden.  We  will  have  tea  with 
them  before  we  leave." 

That  set  all  doubts  at  rest.  I  went  to  put 
on  my  hat,  and  started  at  my  own  face  when 
I  beheld  it  in  the  glass.  Love  had  changed 
it  till  it  was  almost  beautiful.  He  thought  so, 
too ;  I  could  see  that  when  he  looked  silently 
and  half-wonderingly  at  me  in  the  one  mo- 
ment before  we  left  the  house.  Perhaps  he 
divined  in  that  moment  all  that  was  going 
on  in  my  heart.  What  did  it  matter  ?  Had 
he  not  kissed  me  long  since  under  the 
mango -trees  at  Poona?  Would  he  have 
done  it  had  he  not  loved  me,  had  he  not 
known  that  I  loved  him  back?  All  things 
are  not  said  in  words,  some  are  told  in  a 
language  that  has  no  sound  for  ears  to  hear. 

We  jumped  into  a  hansom  and  drove  to 
Grove  End  Road.  I  could  have  sung  for 
joy  as  I  went  along,  but  that  all  the  time  I 
listened — to  what?  Nellie,  do  you  know 
how  the  rattle  of  a  train,  the  wheels  of  a 
carriage,  the  thud-thud  of  a  steamer  will 
sometimes  keep  time  to  a  song  that  no  lips 
sing,  only  your  own  joyous  heart  on  some 
few  blessed  times  in  your  life  ?  As  we  went 
along  every  sound  kept  time  to  a  silent  song 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  12$ 

in  my  heart :  "  Happiest  in  the  world,  there's 
no  one  like  him,  no  one  at  all — happiest  in 
the  world,"  the  wheels  ground  out  as  they 
went  round  and  round.  I  looked  at  the 
people  we  passed,  and  they  looked  back  at 
me  as  if  they  knew  how  happy  I  was,  as  if 
they  knew  that  I  was  with  my  lover.  We 
sped  on  swiftly.  What  a  gay  and  happy 
place  was  London ;  even  on  a  drear  October 
day  like  that  the  streets  were  full  of  busy 
people,  the  very  air  seemed  full  of  life.  How 
wonderful  it  was  to  be  a  girl,  to  be  beside 
Mark  and  going  to  his  studio  !  Oh,  my  dear, 
my  dear,  who  was  all  the  world  to  me !  I 
looked  at  his  face  shyly,  and  he  laughed — 
for  happiness,  it  seemed  ;  did  he,  too,  catch 
the  burden  of  the  song  that  all  things  sang 
to  me  ?  On  we  whirled  ;  gray  was  the  sky 
overhead,  sombre  the  dress  of  the  passing 
folk,  brown  the  London  roads,  ugly  the  cabs 
and  omnibuses,  heavy  and  slow  the  lumber- 
ing carts ;  what  did  it  matter,  for  at  last  I 
tasted  the  draught  of  joy  that  love  held  to 
my  lips — tasted,  and  all  things  were  made 
beautiful  ?  I  was  so  proud  of  loving  him, 
thankful  that  it  was  my  lot  to  do  so,  for 
was  he  not  best  in  the  world,  wisest  and 
cleverest  ?  And  good  ?  Oh  yes,  good,  too ; 
he  was  too  grand,  too  wonderful  altogther  in 


126  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

my  girlish  eyes  to  be  anything  else.  Fool 
that  I  was,  dear  Nell,  for  I  knew  nothing. 
To  him  all  things  were  known,  to  me  all  un- 
known. I  was  asleep,  but  he  was  awake. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  secretly  that  day  he 
scorned  me  because  I  loved  him,  because  I 
trusted  him.  Trusted  him !  I  would  have 
staked  my  life  that  every  word  he  said  was 
true,  and  every  look  an  index  of  his  heart. 
It  never  once  entered  into  my  mind — how 
should  it  ? — that  all  the  time  a  self  of  which 
I  knew  nothing,  thought  and  drew  conclu- 
sions and  managed  him — a  self  totally  dif- 
ferent from  the  one  he  showed  me. 

We  stopped  at  last  by  a  garden  door  be- 
hind Grove  End  Road — not  at  the  Berrys' 
house,  but  at  the  studio  at  the  far  end  of 
their  garden.  We  could  not  see  the  house 
for  the  thick  trees  between.  I  jumped  down 
quickly,  the  excitement  was  flashing  from 
my  eyes  and  burning  on  my  cheeks,  and 
made  me  almost  dumb.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
was  about  to  pass  into  his  life  for  a  space, 
to  see  his  work,  the  surroundings  among 
which  he  spent  his  time,  the  "things  that 
suggested  thoughts  to  him  and  made  him 
work,  made  him  known  to  the  great  world 
beyond  our  two  selves — the  world  that  would 
one  day  speak  of  him  as  a  master.  What 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  127 

an  idealist  is  a  girl,  dear  Nellie,  and  what 
strange  dreams  are  sometimes  dreamed  be- 
hind the  most  innocent  eyes  in  the  world ! 

Mark  paid  the  cabman,  and  still  with  the 
smile  on  his  lips,  and  the  happy  look  that 
had  come  into  his  eyes  since  we  started, 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  key  with  which 
he  opened  the  door  of  the  studio.  I  entered, 
but  stopped  on  the  threshold.  All  was  si- 
lent, dim,  and  cold — waiting  for  us. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  pulling  back  a  blind 
that  had  been  drawn  over  the  high  north 
window.  But  still  I  waited  by  the  door. 
Everything  looked  cold  and  comfortless,  as 
though  the  whole  place  had  been  asleep  and 
did  not  realize  yet  that  it  was  time  to  awake 
— that  we  had  come,  and  there  was  some 
life  to  live  through  ;  a  chapter  in  two  peo- 
ple's histories  for  the  walls  to  listen  to  and 
look  down  upon.  He  stood  for  a  minute 
watching  the  effect  of  the  keen  gray  light 
coming  in,  then  turned  to  me  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  :  "  I  have  always  wanted  to  see  you 
here,"  he  said,  "  and  now  you  have  come. 
But  why  do  you  stand  there,  my  child  ?"  I 
shivered  with  cold,  with  the  silence,  and 
could  not  speak.  He  came  over  to  me ;  he 
took  my  hand  and  led  me  farther  into  the 
room.  "  I  have  often  thought  how  well  we 


128  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

could  paint  here.  In  future  it  shall  be  our 
workshop,  and  we  will  astonish  the  world, 
eh  ?"  His  voice  was  a  lover's  voice,  my 
heart  knew  that  well  enough,  and  in  its  tone 
there  was  a  confidence  and  tenderness  that 
might  well  have  set  my  fears  at  rest.  But 
still  I  was  half  afraid — of  what  ?  God  knew, 
perhaps,  but  I  did  not. 

You  will  wonder  that  I  remember  it  all  so 
keenly,  but  I  do  not  think  that  I  forget  one 
word  he  ever  said  to  me.  Even  his  letters 
stay  with  me  ;  I  burned  them  long  ago  in  bit- 
ter, passionate  scorn,  but  I  could  say  them 
all  by  heart. 

With  my  hand  in  his,  as  if  to  gain  cour- 
age, I  looked  round  the  studio  again ;  it  was 
large  and  picturesque,  and  full  of  the  prop- 
erties in  which  painters  delight :  armor  and 
draperies,  old  cabinets  and  strange-shaped 
pots,  tall  palms  and  low,  roomy  bamboo 
chairs.  He  followed  my  gaze.  "  These  frip- 
peries are  not  mine,"  he  explained ;  "  they^ 
belong  to  a  man  who  had  the  studio  before 
me.  He  is  abroad  now,  but  I  told  him  I 
would  take  charge  of  them  till  he  came 
back."  I  shivered  again,  with  the  gloom 
and  cold,  perhaps,  and  with  a  certain  sense 
of  strangeness.  "  Why,  you  are  cold,"  he 
said,  "  you  are  shivering ;  wait,  we  will  soon 


A   WORLDLY    WOMAN  129 

alter  that ;"  and  he  went  to  a  little  ebony 
elephant  on  a  shelf,  and,  taking  a  match 
from  its  back,  set  light  to  the  wood-fire  ready 
laid  in  the  big  fireplace.  Then  he  drew  up 
two  of  the  low  chairs,  that  brought  back 
with  a  rush  memories  of  your  room  at  Poona, 
and  put  them  before  the  logs  that  almost 
in  a  minute  were  blazing.  "Let  us  sit 
down  and  get  warm,"  he  said;  "old  ship's 
wood  always  burns  well  and  crackles  and 
makes  blue  flame.  Don't  you  like  watch- 
ing it?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered;  "I  like  to  watch  it 
sometimes — " 

"It  makes  one  think  of  great  seas  and 
storms  and  drowning  crews  on  helpless 
ships,"  he  went  on.  Then  suddenly  he  ask- 
ed, "And  what  do  you  think  of  the  studio  ?" 

"  It  is  lovely,  but—" 

"  Then  let  us  sit  and  talk  while  the  fire 
blazes — you  are  cold  enough." 

"  But  we  came  to  work,"  I  pleaded ;  "  let 
us  begin  before  the  daylight  goes." 

"  We  shall  have  lots  of  time  to  work  here," 
he  answered;  "we  can  come  every  day  if 
we  like  ;  sit  down  now  and  let  us  take  quiet- 
ly our  first  hour  here  together." 

Helplessly  I  did  as  he  told  me.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  looking  at  the  room 


130  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

and  then  at  me.  I  knew  vaguely,  as  I  sat 
there  with  my  hands  crossed  on  my  lap  and 
my  head  resting  against  the  great  silk  cush- 
ion on  the  chair-back,  that  he  was  going  to 
make,  love  to  me,  and  my  heart  stood  still, 
and  I  was  afraid — of  what  ?  Of  some  un- 
known wrong  that  against  my  own  will  I 
seemed  to  be  doing.  But  I  was  not  wholly 
passive  ;  in  a  blindfold  way  I  struggled  with 
the  fate  that  seemed  to  be  bearing  down  on 
me. 

"  This  room  suits  you,"  he  said  ;  "  it  makes 
just  the  right  background  for  your  coloring. 
You  look  as  you  did  that  night  at  Poona — 
in  the  garden.  Do  you  remember  our  quar- 
rel, and  how  we  made  it  up  ?" 

I  was  indignant  with  him  for  reminding 
me  of  it. 

"  Please  let  us  talk  of  something  else — let 
us  talk  about  the  studio  and  what  we  will 
paint  here  ?" 

"We  need  not  settle  that  now;  we  can 
paint  together  all  our  lives."  He  spoke 
as  if  we  were  never  going  to  be  apart.  Do 
you  wonder  that  gradually  I  let  go,  and  for- 
got all  things  but  my  love  for  him,  and  his 
— his  desire  to  be  with  me  that  I  mistook 
for  love  ? 

"  All  our  lives  ?"  I  said,  vaguely. 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  131 

"  Why,  yes,  my  child ;  so  we  can  afford 
to  watch  the  ship-wood  crackle  now." 

But  still  I  could  not  shake  off  the  feeling 
that  it  was  wrong  to  be  there,  and  somehow 
I  felt  like  a  prisoner.  Suddenly  he  stopped 
behind  my  chair,  he  leaned  down,  I  knew  that 
he  was  softly  touching  my  hair  with  his  lips. 
That  roused  me  ;  quickly  I  stood  up,  and  fac- 
ing him  took  my  courage  into  my  two  hands. 

"  Mark,"  I  cried,  "  let  us  go  home,  or  let 
us  go  to  the  house  and  see  Mrs.  Berry.  No 
one  knows  that  I  am  here — John  does  not 
— here  all  alone  with  you,  and  as  it  were  in 
secret.  It  feels  wrong,  I  don't  know  why, 
but  it  does."  I  finished  almost  piteously, 
for  the  expression  on  his  face  sent  a  chill 
to  my  heart.  It  had  grown  cold  and  hard 
and  surprised.  All  my  life  was  bound  up 
in  him — I  would  have  died  rather  than  make 
him  angry.  I  could  have  borne  anything 
better  than  his  coldness. 

"  Why  is  it  wrong  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  feel  that  it  is." 

"Don't  be  silly,  dear,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  How  can  it  be  wrong  to  be  here  with  me  ? 
You  are  not  a  child ;  you  are  a  woman,  and 
we  know  what  we  are  about.  Why  should 
we  not  be  here  together  ? — two  people  who 
like  each  other." 


132  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  faltered  again. 

"  Neither  do  I,"  he  answered,  and  put  his 
arms  round  me  lovingly,  but  I  recoiled  al- 
most with  a  shudder. 

"  Ah !  you  do  not  care  for  me,"  he  said, 
scornfully;  "if  you  did  you  would  not  shrink 
from  me." 

"  Oh  !  but  if  Jack  knew—" 

"  But  Jack  does  not  know,"  he  said ; 
"  don't  be  silly,  Madge ;  I  hate  women  who 
are  forever  thinking  of  the  proprieties  ;  your 
cautious  woman,  always  wondering  which 
is  right  and  which  is  wrong  and  doing  nei- 
ther, is  contemptible."  He  had  not  let  go, 
but  he  held  me  a  little  way  off  and  looked 
steadily  and  coldly  in  my  face.  The  hot 
tears  came  to  my  eyes  and  burned  them. 

"  You  are  cruel  to  me ;  you  will  kill  me," 
I  almost  sobbed,  "if  you  say  such  wicked 
things." 

"You  provoke  them.  You  are  not  like 
the  girl  I  knew  in  India." 

"  I  am  the  same,  Mark.  I  am  the  same," 
I  cried. 

"  I  think  she  cared  for  me,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice  ;  "  you  do  not  ?" 

"  I  do,"  I  gasped,  "  I  do." 

"  Not  much  ?"  he  said,  curiously,  in  the 
same  cold  tone.  Looking  back,  I  think  he 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  133 

was  deliberately  informing  himself  of  my 
feeling  towards  him — though  he  must  have 
known  it  well  before — while  he  took  care 
not  to  compromise  himself.  "  Not  much  ?" 
he  repeated.  I  clasped  my  hands ;  I  could 
not  endure  his  manner  any  longer ;  a  strange 
despair  settled  on  my  heart ;  a  dread  lest  he 
should  suddenly  hate  me  unless  he  knew 
the  truth. 

"Oh  yes,"  I  said;  "much,  much — I  care 
dreadfully,"  and  then  for  a  little  while  there 
swept  over  me  the  rest  and  perfect  happi- 
ness that  follows  always,  I  suppose,  on  a 
confession  like  that.  With  those  words  said, 
was  not  I  at  his  mercy,  Nell  ?  I  was,  and 
he  knew  it ;  but  though  he  kissed  me  a  hun- 
dred times  he  did  not  say  that  he  loved  me ; 
he  did  not  ask  me  to  marry  him.  Yet  I  was 
his  friend's  sister ;  he  had  known  me  since 
I  was  a  little  girl,  and  unknowingly  I  had 
felt  that  old  acquaintance  in  itself  a  safe- 
guard, a  reason  why,  no  matter  into  what 
new  phases  of  emotion  he  might  lead  me, 
he  would  let  me  do  no  real  wrong.  Was 
this  so  strange,  dear  Nell?  Was  I  so  old 
and  worldly-wise  that  I  should  know  already 
that  a  woman  should  forever  be  on  the  de- 
fensive, ever  sophisticated,  ever  holding  back 
and  hiding  what  she  feels,  though  a  man 


134  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

may  say  and  do  what  he  will  and  scarce  be 
blamed  at  all.  For  man  is  strong,  and  so 
shall  go  scot-free ;  but  woman  is  weak,  and 
well  shall  man  scout  and  scorn  her  if  just 
for  love  of  him  she  shows  her  weakness. 
So  is  the  game  played  in  this  strange  world 
of  ours. 

We  sat  by  the  wood-fire  till  the  twilight 
came,  till  the  twilight  went  and  the  dark- 
ness gathered;  he  with  his  chair  close  to 
mine,  my  lover  one  minute,  my  half-scornful 
master  the  next.  At  last  the  fire  died  out, 
the  air  grew  chill,  and  the  striking  of  the 
quaint  old  clock  in  the  corner  vibrated  as 
though  the  room  were  empty,  as  though  it 
felt  the  stillness.  The  day  had  come  to  an 
end ;  we  had  sat  beside  the  fire  all  the 
hours  through ;  they  had  slipped  away  as 
our  dreams  slip  back  when  at  last  we  face 
the  waking-time. 

"  It  is  too  late  to  see  Clara  Berry  to-day, 
but  we  shall  have  plenty  of  time  for  that,"  he 
said ;  and  then  we  walked  home  in  silence,  I, 
shy  and  afraid,  and  he — I  do  not  know. 

But  there  was  nothing  to  tell  John,  no 
engagement,  no  confession ;  for  it  was  not 
possible  to  tell  him  that  my  whole  heart  was 
given  to  a  man  who  had  not  even  said  he 
loved  me. 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  135 

That  was  but  the  beginning  of  many  days 
— long  days  at  the  studio,  long  walks  to  and 
fro,  and  talks  by  the  fire  as  the  light  grew 
gray  and  the  wood  burned  and  crackled— 
wood  that  had  seen  shipwreck  once,  and 
now  blazed  out  and  left  but  darkness  be- 
hind as  I  walked  through  my  Eden  towards 
the  gate  that  leads  outward. 

We  were  lovers  in  all  but  name — what 
did  the  name  matter  ?  He  loved  me,  surely, 
I  thought ;  would  he  spend  his  life  with  me 
thus  ;  would  he  caress  me  and  scold  me  and 
forgive  me — for  we  had  many  foolish  quar- 
rels and  makings  up ;  would  he  make  me  so 
happy  and  so  miserable,  would  he  take  my 
whole  life  into  his  hands  if  he. did  not  love 
me  ?  But  he  never  once  said  it.  I  thought 
the  omission  only  an  accident,  and  due  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  not  given  to  making 
protestations.  I  know  now  that  it  was  cold 
wisdom.  He  did  not  mind  putting  shame 
and  reproach  into  a  girl's  life,  but  he  was 
careful  not  to  commit  himself. 

How  you  must  despise  me,  Nell;  and  the 
story  is  not  finished  yet.  Perhaps  even 
though  you  despise  me  you  will  love  me  a 
little  still.  God  grant  you  may,  dear,  and 
that  with  you  at  least  my  soul  may  walk  in 
the  light  of  day.  MADGE. 


XI 

THE   SAME   TO   THE    SAME 

[OW  glad  I  shall  be  when  I  have 
brought  things  up  to  date  !  It 
is  so  long  since  the  days  I  am 
telling  you  of,  and  relating  them 
humiliates  me  more  than  I  can 
bear.  Since  those  days,  too,  I  have  changed. 
I  have  won  my  spurs  in  the  world.  I  know 
my  power,  and  if  I  could  only  forget  I  could 
be  content.  "  Love  is  not  all,"  I  say  to  my- 
self in  these  days  ;  there  are  many  things 
besides — ambition,  for  instance,  and  power. 
To  help  to  make  the  wide  world's  history, 
to  see  the  beginnings  of  great  movements, 
the  birth  of  new  ideas,  the  gradual  develop- 
ment of  some  strange  theory  that  shall  un- 
hinge doors  that  have  been  closed  for  cen- 
turies, and  set  them  open  wide  —  are  not 
these  better  than  love  ?  Love  is  for  the  in- 
dividual— a  short  and  fevered  happiness  for 
one,  at  most  for  two ;  is  it  not  foolish  to 


LOVE  LETTERS   OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN    137 

stake  our  lives  upon  it  ?  Other  things  may 
affect  the  whole  world,  but  love  is  just  for 
our  own  hearts.  Be  it  what  it  will,  love  is 
for  me  no  more — it  is  forever  beyond  my 
reach,  and  so  I  cultivate  fine  feelings  and 
big  thoughts,  and  try  to  find  some  satisfac- 
tion in  them.  It  is  a  trick  known  to  many 
of  us,  though  each  one,  as  he  learns  it,  tries 
to  hide  its  trickiness  and  to  pass  it  off  al- 
most as  a  religion.  Nell,  I  have  played  my 
part  so  well  these  last  years  that  I  pass  for 
a  cold  and  rather  clever  woman,  ambitious 
and  severe,  wholly  above  emotional  phases. 
Lovers  come  to  me  still,  but  they  are  half 
afraid  of  me ;  though  middle-aged  men  like 
Sir  Noel  Franks  consider  me  favorably.  I 
sit  alone,  sometimes,  and  laugh  in  my  sleeve 
or  cry  in  it — it  matters  little  which — when 
I  think  of  my  present  pose  and  of  the  days 
that  I  remember. 

But  to  my  story.  Dear,  this  is  like  a 
novel  for  you.  Each  letter  is  an  instalment. 
I  shall  put "  to  be  continued  "  at  the  end  of 
this  if  I  do  not  finish  to-day. 

Well. 

At  the  end  of  the  winter,  of  which  I  told 
you  in  my  last,  Janet  came  to  live  with  us. 
She  was  our  dear  mother's  maid  years  and 
years  ago,  before  we  were  confided  to  Aunt 


138  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

Maria's  care  at  Daffodil ;  and  being  a  widow, 
came  back  to  us  again,  and  has  been  with  us 
ever  since.  She  looks  after  everything  here, 
and  is  the  great  comfort  of  my  life.  She 
has  known  us  both  ever  since  we  were  born, 
and  is  more  like  a  dear  friend  than  a  serv- 
ant. John  was  glad  to  give  her  a  home. 
He  thought  she  would  take  care  of  me ;  and 
she  has  done  so.  Soon  after  she  came,  John 
was  asked  to  go  to  Canada  for  some  months. 
He  was  to  be  away  from  April  to  October, 
and  then  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to 
consider  my  position  and  to  realize  that  at 
one-and-twenty  I  was  not  old  enough  to  live 
alone  in  London  with  only  Janet  to  look 
after  me,  and  with  Mark  for  my  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend.  He  knew  I  should 
hate  going  to  Daffodil,  and  did  not  venture 
to  propose  it.  One  day  he  saw  an  adver- 
tisement of  a  tiny  cottage  to  be  let  on  the 
river,  near  Cookham.  It  was  the  very 
thing,  he  declared,  when  he  came  back  from 
seeing  it ;  there  was  a  boat,  a  summer-house, 
a  long  garden,  and  room  enough  in  the 
house  for  me  and  Janet,  and  one  servant 
besides. 

"  You  can  be  happy  there,  dear  Madge," 
he  added;  "you  will  have  your  books  to 
read  and  the  garden  for  a  studio." 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  139 

"  May  Mark  come  ?"  I  asked,  for  my  heart 
was  sinking. 

"  He  may  go  down  and  see  you  for  a  few 
hours  in  the  course  of  the  summer,"  he 
answered ;  "  but  he  must  not  go  and  stay 
with  you,  remember ;  after  all,  Mark  is  no 
relation—  He  stopped  and  looked  at  me, 
and  I  knew  that  it  was  because  my  face 
was  turning  white  with  dismay.  Even  then, 
though  I  did  not  know  it,  I  felt  the  cruelty 
of  Mark's  conduct  as  I  stood  tongue-tied 
before  my  brother.  "Why,  Madge,  dear, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  you  are  quite  pale,  and 
there  are  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"Let  me  stay  in  town,"  I  pleaded;  "I 
don't  want  to  go  away.  It  will  be  so  lone- 
ly." 

"  You  shall  stay  if  you  will  have  some  of 
the  Daffodil  people  with  you."  That  was 
enough.  I  agreed  to  the  cottage. 

So  John  went  to  Canada,  but  first  he  had 
a  long  talk  with  Mark.  I  do  not  know 
what  it  was  about,  but  for  some  time  after- 
wards the  latter  was  almost  distant.  I  was 
distracted — he  did  not  love  me  any  more  ;  it 
was  all  over,  and  I  should  break  my  heart. 
I  only  lived  for  him  in  those  wild  days — he 
was  all  my  world.  I  think  of  it  now  some- 
times when  I  look  at  John's  dear  face  and 


140  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

see  the  furrows  that  work  and  thought  have 
left  there,  and  hate  myself  for  my  own 
selfishness. 

John  in  his  simplicity  thought  he  had  put 
some  distance  between  Mark  and  me.  He 
had  only  made  things  more  easy.  Janet  and 
I  in  that  little  house,  with  the  wood  in  front 
and  the  river  behind,  the  old-fashioned  gar- 
den, the  summer-house,  the  boat  in  its  little 
shelter,  a  basket-carriage  at  the  inn  close  by 
— is  not  the  rest  easy  to  imagine  ? 

At  first  he  wrote  regularly  twice  a  week. 
I  wrote  to  him  every  day,  but  every  other 
letter  I  burned.  I  longed  to  see  him,  to  ask 
him  to  come,  but  dared  not,  and  he  said  no 
word.  The  hours  dragged  by  without  him 
— they  were  so  empty,  so  long,  so  useless,  the 
river  was  chilly,  the  roads  were  dreary.  I 
could  not  work,  for  nothing  in  the  world  was 
worth  painting ;  or  read,  for  my  thoughts 
would  not  fasten  on  a  book. 

One  afternoon  I  sat  in  the  summer-house 
rolled  in  a  shawl  (it  was  cold,  uncertain 
April)  listening  for  the  postman's  step. 
Twice  a  day  he  came,  and  when  the  second 
letters  were  delivered  I  felt  as  if  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  wait  as  best  one  could 
till  the  morning.  I  used  to  watch  and  wait 
for  a  letter,  Nellie,  as  though  it  fell  from 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  141 

heaven,  bringing  a  message  of  its  bliss,  and 
the  sight  of  one  of  the  long  envelopes  with 
the  embossed  stamp  that  Mark  always  used 
sent  a  thrill  of  joy  through  me  that  was 
almost  pain. 

Presently,  instead  of  the  postman's  step 
there  was  another.  I  knew  it  well  enough, 
and  started  to  my  feet.  Of  course  it  was 
Mark.  He  laughed  for  joy  when  he  saw  the 
color  come  to  my  face. 

"I  have  brought  my  things,"  he  said, 
"  and  am  going  to  stay  at  the  Swan  for  a 
bit ;  I  thought  we  might  do  some  work  to- 
gether." I  clasped  my  hands  and  could 
not  speak  for  a  moment ;  there  was  no  need 
— he  understood. 

And  then  in  the  days  that  followed  I  felt 
as  if  the  whole  universe  sang  for  joy  just 
because  we  were  together ;  just  because  of 
my  great  happiness.  It  did  not  seem  possi- 
ble that  the  world  could  any  longer  hold 
sorrow  or  pain.  And  the  cities  and  the  peo- 
ples—  they  had  all  vanished,  gone  to  the 
earth's  far  corners  or  on  to  heaven  perhaps  : 
but  we  were  there  among  the  trees,  beside 
the  river,  free  and  alone  in  the  beautiful 
world  together.  Together  —  together  all 
through  the  bright  spring  days,  all  through 
the  sultry  summer,  till  the  first  cold  winds 


142  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

of  autumn  came  and  swept  before  them 
many  things.  I  shiver  as  I  remember  these 
last.  But  the  dusky  evenings,  the  rustle  of 
the  leaves,  the  notes  of  the  birds  hidden 
among  them  —  notes  that  seemed  to  come 
from  their  soft  throats  that  were  as  full  of 
joy  as  was  my  heart  —  the  ripple  of  the 
river,  the  yellow  of  the  marigold,  the  scent 
of  the  roses,  how  they  all  come  back  to 
me  as  I  sit  here  and  write  at  the  end  of  the 
story. 

We  spent  whole  days  upon  the  river, 
starting  in  the  early  morning,  taking  our 
luncheon  with  us,  putting  up  under  a  tree  to 
eat  it  or  landing  on  some  lonely  little  island 
covered  with  trees  and  short,  thick  under- 
wood. We  made  a  picnic  of  our  own,  the 
chicken  and  the  fruit  and  the  cakes  that 
Janet  had  put  up  for  us,  the  claret  and  the 
cold  black  coffee.  How  like  Eden  it  was  ! 
— Eden  that  had  heard  just  enough  of  the 
outside  world  to  gather  in  its  comforts. 

After  we  had  finished  our  gay  little  meal 
he  smoked,  and  we  sat  close  together  watch- 
ing our  boat  tied  up,  and  talked  and  dawdled 
through  the  summer  hours,  making  plans  for 
the  future  or  speculating  idly  how  we  would 
have  a  house-boat  here  or  a  wigwam  there, 
and  forever  keep  away  from  the  haunts  of 


A   WORLDLY    WOMAN  143 

men.  Did  it  seem  as  if  we  should  ever  be 
apart  ? 

Once,  nay,  many  times,  I  said :  "  Oh,  if 
Jack  only  knew  that  you  were  here,  then  I 
could  be  content.  Now  I  am  afraid  of  his 
being  angry ;"  but  he  always  answered 
impatiently : 

"  What  nonsense  ;  you  have  a  right  to  do 
as  you  like ;  besides,  why  should  John  be 
angry  ?"  Or  I  tried  to  make  our  relations 
more  formal,  and  would  not  let  him  walk 
through  the  woods  with  his  arm  round  my 
waist,  but  he  only  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"Two  people  who  like  each  other  and 
are  together,  surely  there  is  nothing  wrong 
in  this  ?"  he  said. 

That  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  decla- 
ration he  ever  made  me,  and  yet  in  every- 
thing but  words  he  was  my  devoted  lover. 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  was  lulled,  that  I  gave 
up  my  whole  life  to  him  without  disguise  and 
trusted  him  absolutely  ?  If  the  question  had 
arisen  I  should  have  said,  "  Of  course  he 
loves  me."  There  was  no  necessity  for 
words. 

Nell,  how  cruel  it  was,  for  he  knew,  though 
I  did  not.  He  was  careful  and  cautious, 
though  I  had  thrown  all  things  save  trust  in 
him  to  the  winds.  Why  did  I  love  him  ? 


144  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

Why  do  I  ?  for  I  do.  I  realize  that  as  I 
write  to  you,  though  I  am  cold  and  wide- 
eyed,  too,  and  can  see  him  clearly,  his  cow- 
ardice and  selfishness,  his  absolute  want  of 
generosity  that  would  let  him  consider  no 
point  of  view  but  his  own,  no  human  being 
but  himself.  I  understand  him  well  enough 
now,  the  side  of  his  nature  that  made  him 
come  after  me,  the  fascination  that  my  youth 
was  to  him,  and  perhaps  that  only;  I  see 
without  flinching  the  whole  of  the  madden- 
ing degradation.  He  never  did  one  gener- 
ous thing  towards  me  ;  he  never  sent  me  one 
wholly  generous  letter,  for  in  every  one 
there  was  an  air  of  restraint,  of  care  not  to 
commit  himself,  of  holding  back.  He  cared 
for  nothing  concerning  me,  but  only  for  his 
own  pleasure  and  fancy  for  the  moment.  And 
yet  the  fact  remains  that  I  loved  him  and  glo- 
rified him  and  lived  only  to  him  and  for  him. 
He  was  not  wholly  kind  to  me,  even  in 

/        that  mad  summer  in  which  we  were  never 

apart.    He  lectured  and  scolded  and  sulked 

S      with  me ;  we  had  many  foolish  quarrels,  over 

/  which  I  nearly  broke  my  heart,  and  when 
we  made  them  up  it  was  all  my  doing  and 
none  of  his.  If  I  had  been  in  the  right,  it 
made  no  difference.  He  was  not  capable 
of  owning  when  he  was  wrong. 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  145 

I  am  very  hard  upon  him,  rrr,  dear  old 
love  whom  I  loved  more  than  my  own  soul ; 
but,  as  I  said  before,  you  must  measure  my 
suffering  by  my  bitterness,  and  perhaps  my 
love,  too.  I  have  been  beaten  by  fate  or  my 
own  folly,  which  you  will,  till  I  am  so  hard 
that  sometimes  I  feel  like  a  stone. 

It  was  Janet  who  first  grew  uneasy  at  the 
state  of  things. 

"Dear  Miss  Madge,"  she  said,  in  her 
country  way,  "  and  when  is  it  that  you  and 
Mr.  Mark  are  going  to  marry  ?" 

My  heart  stood  still ;  instinctively  I  dread- 
ed being  questioned. 

"I  don't  know,  Janet.  You  must  not  talk 
of  that." 

"  But  he's  asked  y6u  to  marry  him,  surely? 
He's  been  here  and  with  you  all  day  long, 
weeks  in  and  weeks  out.  He's  asked  you 
to  marry,  surely  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  severely. 

"No,  Janet.  He  hasn't  asked  me.  I 
don't  think  he  wants  to  marry." 

Janet  knew  our  mother  before  we  were 
born.  She  had  nursed  us  as  babies.  I 
could  not  dispute  her  right  to  question  me. 

"  If  he  doesn't  want  to  marry  you,  Miss 
Madge,  dear,  he  oughtn't  to  want  to  be 
with  you  day  after  day.  It's  taking  your 


146  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

heart  and  maybe  your  good  name  and  life 
away." 

"Oh  no,  Janet;  oh  no,"  I  cried,  "he  likes 
being  with  me.  He  may  not  want  to  marry 
yet,  but  he  likes  being  with  me." 

"  Is  he  fond  of  you  ?"  she  asked,  her  kind- 
ly old  face  turning  anxiously  towards  me. 

Again  I  faltered,  and  I  saw  vaguely  how 
careful  he  had  been. 

"  I  think  so,  Janet.  He  would  not  be  al- 
ways with  me  if  he  did  not  care." 

"  Has  he  told  you  so  ?  Has  he  told  you 
that  he  loves  you,  dear  heart  ?" 

For  a  minute  I  looked  at  her  in  silence, 
feeling  as  though  a  door  had  been  suddenly 
opened  and  I  had  looked  out  at  a  dark  night 
and  saw  no  light  ahead,  no  star  above,  yet 
knew  that  I  might  have  to  go  forth — whith- 
er ?  But  I  shook  off  my  fear,  though  my 
lips  trembled  as  I  answered : 

"No  —  no,  Janet.  He  hasn't  said  it  — 
words  are  not  necessary." 

"  Yes,  dearie,  they  are ;  and  if  he's  an 
honest  man,  he'll  tell  you  that  he  loves  you, 
and  if  he's  not,  better  let  him  go.  He  makes 
love  to  you,  like  enough,  takes  you  in  his 
arms,  and  kisses  you  ?" 

I  was  silent,  for  I  could  not  contradict 
her. 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  147 

"  No  honest  man  does  that  unless  he  loves 
a  girl,  Miss  Madge,"  she  added,  sternly. 

"But  he  has  known  me  all  my  life,  Janet," 
I  pleaded. 

"All  the  more  reason  that  he  should  be 
honest  towards  you.  Make  no  mistake, 
women  trust  and  men  deceive.  Does  he 
know  you  love  him,  my  dearie  ?"  she  asked, 
softly,  for  her  kindly  heart  ached  sorely  for 
me. 

"  Yes,  Janet " — and  I  burst  into  tears — 
"he  knows  that  I  love  him,  for  I  betrayed 
it  long  ago  at  the  studio,  before  we  left  Lon- 
don." 

She  put  her  arms  round  me,  and  drew  me 
on  her  lap  as  she  used  to  do  when  I  was  a 
tiny  child  and  cried  because  my  mother  did 
not  come  back  to  us. 

"I  have  loved  him  ever  since  I  was  in 
India,  Janet." 

"  And  did  he  make  love  to  you  there  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  whispered. 

"  And  kept  a  guard  on  his  tongue  and  a 
lock  on  his  lips  all  the  time ;  never  talked 
of  marriage,  never  said  out  once  like  a  man 
that  he  loved  you — never  once,  my  darling  ?" 

I  fell  to  considering  his  words  day  after 
day,  and  his  letters ;  there  had  been  scores 
of  them,  but  not  one  of  them  contained  the 


148  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

words  for  which  my  whole  soul  awoke  to 
hunger. 

"  No,  Janet,  no;"  then  a  flash  of  light  broke 
on  me.  "  But  he  has  often  said  we  will  do 
this  and  we  will  do  that;  and  only  a  little 
while  ago,  when  I  was  afraid  we  were  doing 
wrong  in  being  together  so  much,  he  said, 
'  What  nonsense,  two  people  who  like  each 
other.'  That  shows  he  means,  he  cares — 
he  is  not  one  to  make  protestations— they 
are  not  like  him ;  he  would  think  them  be- 
neath him." 

"No  man  thinks  it  beneath  him  to  be 
honorable,  dearie." 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  honorable,"  I  cried,  in  de- 
spair. 

"  Don't  see  him  any  more,  Miss  Madge." 

"  But  I  must,  Janet." 

"  Don't  let  him  be  with  you  all  day;  don't 
let  him  make  love  to  you  till  he  can  find  a 
tongue  to  speak,  and  if  he  can't,  let  him  go." 

"I  can't  let  him  go,  Janet  —  I  can't,"  I 
whispered.  "  Don't  be  cruel  to  me.  I  must 
trust  him — I  will.  This  is  August,  the  sum- 
mer will  soon  be  over,  perhaps  he  will  speak 
before  we  leave  here.  He  may  think  it  isn't 
necessary.  He  does,  I  know  he  does.  He 
thinks  I  understand  without  words,  just  or- 
dinary words,  they  are  for  ordinary  people, 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  149 

not  for  him.  Don't  interfere,  dear  Janet, 
let  it  go  on  to  the  end  of  our  time  here. 
Let  me  stand  or  fall,  all  my  hope  and  hap- 
piness, by  him." 

"As  many  a  poor  soul  has  by  a  man  be- 
fore, and  will  in  days  to  come,"  said  Janet, 
rocking  herself. 

"  If  he  fails  me  I  can  die,"  I  pleaded. 

"  It's  easy  to  talk  of  dying,  but  life  clings," 
poor  Janet  answered,  brushing  the  tears  from 
her  eyes.  "  But  it  is  only  a  little  while  lon- 
ger that  we  have  to  stay  here — just  to  the 
end  of  September.  Let  him  have  his  chance; 
but  hold  back,  dear :  as  woman  holds  off, 
man  follows ;  as  she  comes  forward,  he  falls 
back ;  remember  that,  Miss  Madge." 

From  that  time  I  was  awake,  and  longed, 
with  a  longing  that  was  madness,  to  hear 
him  say  that  he  loved  me.  I  tried  to  hold 
back,  as  Janet  told  me,  to  be  more  distant, 
more  formal,  colder ;  but  how  could  I  after 
the  terms  we  had  been  on  ?  Besides,  in 
spite  of  my  former  engagement  to  James 
Harrison,  and  my  Indian  experiences,  I  was 
unsophisticated  still ;  and  as  soon  as  I  was 
out  of  earshot  again,  and  had  been  five  min- 
utes with  Mark,  I  trusted  him  as  much,  as 
blindly,  as  absolutely  as  ever.  If  he  were 
not  worth  loving,  it  would  be  better  to  find 


150  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

it  out,  and  let  the  knowledge  kill  me.  Al- 
ready I  think  I  divined  the  sorrow  that  was 
before  me,  if  he  had  only  been  making  me 
his  plaything,  the  shame  and  remorse  I 
should  suffer,  the  boundless  scorn  that,  later 
on,  when  the  pain  had  at  last  burned  out, 
would  consume  me,  and  leave  but  the  ashes 
of  my  love  for  him. 

He  seemed  to  know  that  something  had 
happened.  He  was  waiting  to  take  me  on 
the  river ;  we  met  by  the  gate ;  there  was  a 
look  of  inquiry  on  his  face. 

"Well?"  he  said;  but  I  could  not  raise 
my  eyes.  "  Has  anything  happened  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

We  went  down  the  wooden  steps  into  the 
boat  and  put  off  in  silence.  He  pulled  up 
by  the  island,  at  which  we  had  so  often 
landed  before. 

"  Come,"  he  said.  "  We  will  rest  here  a 
bit." 

I  took  his  hand  and  stepped  ashore.  We 
went  along  the  narrow  path-way  that  parted 
the  underwood  to  a  grassy  patch  before  an 
oak-tree. 

"Now  tell  me,"  he  said,  "for  I  can  see 
that  something  has  happened.  What  is 
it?" 

"  It  is  nothing,"  I  said — "  nothing,  only 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  1 51 

that  we  are — "  But  I  stopped,  for  I  could 
not  repeat  what  Janet  had  said. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  It  is  only  that  I  wish  John  knew  that  you 
were  here ;  that  we  meet  so  often,  that — " 
But  I  stopped,  and  could  not  go  on.  I  was 
afraid  and  ashamed.  He  looked  at  me  with 
calm  surprise. 

"What  nonsense  !"  he  said.  "We  are  not 
children ;  we  know  what  we  are  doing.  I 
will  make  it  all  right  with  John,  if  it  is  nec- 
essary." He  got  up  as  if  he  were  displeased. 
"  Come,"  he  said,  coldly,  "  perhaps  we  had 
better  go  back." 

But  for  answer  I  broke  into  passionate 
tears. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  angry  !"  I  cried.  "  I  can- 
not bear  it." 

"  Then  why  do  you  try  to  make  me  so  ?" 
he  asked,  as  if  he  were  my  master. 

"  I  never  will  again.  I  will  never  think 
stupid  things  any  more  ;  I  will  trust  you 
absolutely." 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  not,"  he  an- 
swered, cynically.  "Who  knows  how  it 
may  end  ?" 

I  looked  at  him  in  dismay. 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  faltered.  As  if 
he  repented,  his  manner  changed. 


152  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right  in  being  afraid  of 
me,  Madge,"  he  said,  gently.  "  It  is  a  pity 
you  ever  set  eyes  on  me." 

"  Oh  no,  no  !"  I  cried.  "  And  afraid— I 
am  not  afraid,  dear  Mark;  I  am  not,  in- 
deed." 

As  if  to  show  that  I  was  forgiven,  he  put 
his  arm  through  mine,  and  we  sauntered 
round  the  island,  and  not  back  to  the  boat, 
as  I  had  feared.  Suddenly  the  words  came 
to  my  lips,  almost  without  my  knowing  it. 

"  You  have  known  me  since  I  was  a  little 
girl,  Mark." 

"  Yes,  since  you  were  a  little  girl,"  he  re- 
peated, tenderly,  and,  stooping,  kissed  my 
wrist ;  "  and  in  many  things  she  is  a  little 
girl  still." 

So  that  phase  ended.  Do  you  under- 
stand it  all?  Him — me?  I  would  that  I 
did  ;  for  never  yet  has  understanding  of 
him  come  to  this  heart  of  mine  that  was 
not  mixed  with  pain  or  scorn  or  shame. 

We  went  on  just  as  we  had  before  Janet 
spoke  to  me.  His  manner  was  as  tender 
as  ever,  but  he  held  himself  well  in  hand  ; 
and  though  he  wrung  all  manner  of  un- 
guarded admissions  from  me,  he  made  none 
that  bound  him  to  me. 

At  last  the  summer — that  long,  delicious 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  1 53 

summer  that  I  look  back  upon  as  the  heav- 
en of  my  whole  life,  though  I  did  but  walk 
through  it  to  the  hell  beyond — came  to  an 
end.  He  flagged  towards  the  close ;  his 
manner  grew  less  eager,  his  voice  more  ab- 
stracted ;  he  made  excuses  for  not  coming 
so  often  to  the  cottage,  or  for  going  long 
walks  and  drives  and  pulls  on  the  river. 
Nay,  there  were  days  on  which  we  did  not 
meet  at  all,  and  when  we  did  we  no  longer 
spent  our  time  over  driftless  talk  or  in  sweet 
silence. 

Gradually,  as  though  they  had  been  stud- 
ied beforehand,  there  crept  into  his  talk 
allusions  to  his  future  and  mine,  as  if  he 
thought  of  them  as  separate  ways — of  my 
some-day  marriage,  and  of  his  travels.  Into 
my  heart  there  crept  an  awful  dread,  a  ques- 
tioning, an  everlasting  wondering  I  did  not 
dare  to  face. 

"  Some  day,  when  I  am  far  away,  and  you 
and  your  husband — "  he  began  one  day — it 
was  the  last  time  we  ever  went  on  the  river 
together. 

"Why  do  you  talk  like  that?"  I  cried. 
"  I  shall  never  marry — never." 

"  Ah,  that  is  what  all  women  declare  be- 
forehand," he  answered.  But  though  he 
laughed,  I  knew  that  he  was  watching  me 


154  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

narrowly.  It  raised  a  little  terror  in  my 
heart.  Were  all  things  between  us  coming 
to  an  end  ?  Oh,  sooner  might  I  lie  down 
and  die. 

But,  day  by  day  almost,  his  manner  grew 
colder,  and  more  and  more  careful,  a  little 
wearied,  too,  as  though  he  were  waiting  to 
see  the  play  out,  and  would  be  glad  when  it 
was  finished.  His  words  were  fewer  and 
more  distant ;  and  slowly,  like  a  nightmare, 
there  crept  over  me  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  severing  his  life  from  mine  —  and  it 
was  so. 

In  late  September  we  were  to  go  back  to 
town,  and  Janet  made  ready.  Mark  went 
a  fortnight  before  we  did.  On  his  arrival 
he  wrote  me  a  curt  little  note,  and  that 
was  all. 

I  counted  the  hours  of  our  last  week  at 
the  cottage,  longing  to  see  John  again,  but 
longing  still  more  to  see  Mark — to  be  near 
him,  to  know  that  at  any  hour  he  might 
come  if  he  would,  and  that  at  any  moment, 
with  the  sound  of  his  voice,  all  the  misery 
that  possessed  me  might  be  swept  away.  I 
sometimes  think  that  my  feeling  for  him 
was  a  madness — that  he  had  made  it  one. 
Oh,  the  carefulness  of  that  man  not  to  com- 
mit himself ;  the  calm  way  in  which  he  delib- 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  155 

erately  took  my  life  into  his  hands,  amused 
himself  with  it,  nursed  it  and  moulded  it,  and 
then,  when  he  was  tired  of  it,  threw  it  on 
one  side  with  impatience  and  forgetfulness. 

The  last  day  of  all  at  the  cottage  came, 
and  while  Janet  finished  packing  I  went  on 
the  river  once  more — to  the  island  where  he 
and  I  had  spent  so  many  hours  together.  I 
did  not  tell  Janet  I  was  going  there,  for  her 
quiet  scorn  of  him  was  more  than  I  could 
bear.  It  was  strange  enough  to  go  alone. 
I  got  out  of  the  boat,  and,  having  made  it 
fast,  looked  behind  me  stealthily,  and  trod 
softly,  as  though  I  were  doing  some  strange, 
forbidden  thing,  or  treading  a  graveyard, 
and  feared  to  awaken  the  sleepers.  I  went 
towards  the  tree  beneath  which  we  had  rest- 
ed so  often.  I  sat  down  and  covered  my 
face  with  my  hands,  and  gave  myself  up  to 
the  misery  that  possessed  me.  I  thought 
over  all  the  days  we  had  spent  together,  all 
that  he  had  said,  all  that  we  had  done  from 
that  first  hour  in  the  sunshine  at  Bombay 
to  the  last,  a  fortnight  ago,  when  he  had 
wished  me  good-bye  at  the  cottage  with, 
"  Well,  I  must  be  off ;  we  shall  meet  in  town, 
I  suppose  ?"  His  manner  had  said  clearly, 
"This  is  the  beginning  of  a  new  order  of 
things,  remember,  for  the  old  one  is  ended." 


156  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

He  had  stooped  and  kissed  my  cheek,  and 
was  gone.  ...  I  raised  my  face;  all  was 
still,  no  sound  of  a  boat  going  by,  no  note 
of  a  bird  overhead  to  disturb  the  silence, 
only  the  leaves  falling — poor  leaves,  that 
had  hung  so  fresh  and  high,  and  now  fell 
low,  sere  and  yellow — with  a  whisper  that  I 
seemed  to  understand :  "  The  day  is  over, 
the  summer  is  done,  and  you  are  alone,  as 
all  human  beings  are  alone  sooner  or  later. 
It  is  a  part  of  life,  so  great  a  part  that  it  is 
nearly  the  whole ;  only  some  are  alone  in 
the  silence,  and  some  in  the  midst  of  many 
who  go  past  them,  but  never  take  account." 

I  put  my  hands  over  my  eyes  again,  I 
stopped  my  ears,  and  rocked  to  and  fro,  and 
wondered  when  I  should  die.  Oh,  what  girl- 
hood suffers,  Nell !  Yet  how  few  who  are 
near  understand,  and  how  some  scoff,  and 
most  forget !  At  last,  in  sheer  despair,  I  got 
up,  almost  ran  to  the  boat,  and  rowed  back 
with  the  strength  of  despair — youth's  de- 
spair— in  my  arms.  I  would  never  see  the 
cottage  again,  I  would  never  see  the  island 
again.  .  .  . 

Janet  was  ready;  the  luggage  had^one 
to  the  station.  We  got  into  a  fly  and  slow- 
ly followed.  It  was  all  over;  the  summer 
was  finished. 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  157 

Mark  came  to  see  us  soon  after  we  were 
back  in  the  town,  but  he  was  changed  alto- 
gether. In  some  sort  of  way  he  made  an 
apology  for  the  past.  "  I  think  we  were 
very  foolish  to  go  on  as  we  did  all  the  sum- 
mer," he  said,  "  and  last  winter  at  the  stu- 
dio. Jack  and  I  had  a  talk  before  he  went 
abroad,  and  I  ought  to  have  remembered  it ; 
but,  after  all,  you  are  not  a  child."  What 
could  I  say,  and  what  could  I  do  ?  If  I  had 
refused  to  let  him  come  to  the  house,  or  had 
quarrelled  with  him,  what  could  I  have  said  to 
Jack  ?  Besides,  on  what  excuse  could  I  have 
quarrelled  with  him  that  would  not  have  left 
me  shamefaced  ?  Above  all,  too,  I  loved  him, 
even  yet,  a  thousand  times  too  much  to  risk 
seeing  him  no  more.  So,  silent  and  misera- 
ble, I  let  things  drift  as  they  pleased. 

We  never  went  back  to  the  old  footing — 
never.  He  came  to  see  us  once  a  week; 
but  his  manner  grew  cold  and  formal,  criti- 
cal and  fault-finding.  I  have  learned  to 
know  that  the  first  sign  of  love's  waning  is 
when  it  takes  to  being  critical.  Love  ?  The 
pity  of  it  is  that  I  can  never  be  sure  that 
Mark  had  ever  any  love  at  all  for  me,  or  I 
could  forgive  him  everything. 

That  winter  his  views  of  life  seemed  to 
change,  his  plans  to  alter  entirely.  Without 


158  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

telling  me  so  in  actual  words,  he  was  always 
trying  to  convey  this  to  me,  and  I  felt  as 
helpless  to  swim  against  the  strange  tide 
that  was  setting  in  as  to  swim  with  it.  For, 
if  he  could  change  so  suddenly,  I  could  not. 
If  all  the  summer  and  the  winter  before 
he  had  been  dishonest,  I  had  been  honest 
enough,  and  what  I  appeared  to  feel  that  I 
had  felt  and  not  pretended.  But  what  he 
felt  and  intended  now  was  suddenly  thrust 
upon  me.  We  had  often  talked  of  some 
day  painting  a  picture  together.  It  had 
been  his  idea,  not  mine.  He  was  to  paint 
the  figures,  and  I  the  background.  We 
were  to  begin  it  when  we  were  back  in  town. 
I  alluded  to  it  in  one  of  my  letters.  His 
reply  was  :  "  We  must  paint  our  great  pict- 
ure later  on  in  life,  for  I  have  too  much  to 
do  to  think  of  it  yet.  We  are  both  sure  to 
marry,  and  if  some  day  I  like  your  husband 
and  you  like  my  wife,  we  can  then  astonish 
the  world  with  our  united  efforts."  Was 
not  that  sufficient  ?  Yet,  in  after  days,  he 
had  the  meanness  to  taunt  me  with  being 
false  to  him — to  him  who  never  once  was 
true  to  me  or  said  a  word  to  bind  me. 

Gradually  his  visits  ceased,  but  we  often 
wrote  to  each  other.  A  correspondence  had 
somehow  been  established  between  us, 


A  WORLDLY   WOMAN  159 

though  his  letters  were  never  those  of  a  lov- 
er. Yet  he  assumed"  an  authority  in  my  life 
that,  against  my  will,  had  a  certain  sweet- 
ness, and  I  submitted  and  referred  all  things 
to  him,  and  thought  him  manly  when  he 
bullied  me,  and  found  an  odd  delight  even 
in  being  browbeaten — nay,  I  liked  him  for 
his  very  tyranny,  his  anger  and  cruelty.  We 
had  a  long  quarrel  once,  and  he  wrote  me 
letters  full  of  jibes  and  taunts  and  fault- 
finding; and  when  at  last  he  stirred  the 
devil  that,  after  all,  is  chained  near  most 
passionate  women's  hearts,  and  I  gave  him 
back  the  bitterness  he  sent  me,  he  refused 
to  open  any  more  letters,  yet  sent  me  a  vol- 
ley of  insults.  Manly,  was  it  not,  Nellie,  to 
bully  from  a  safe  corner  a  woman  whose  love 
he  had  won,  and  whose  life  he  had  filled 
with  shame  and  humiliation  ? 

We  made  up  that  quarrel.  But  he  took 
some  vast  credit  to  himself  for  forgiving  me, 
and  in  the  letter  in  which  he  did  so  told 
me  that  living  alone  so  much  spoiled  me,  he 
wished  he  could  see  me  "  married  to  some 
one  who  would  be  as  fond  of  you  and  as 
proud  of  you  as  he  ought  to  be."  A  noble 
sentiment,  truly,  worthy  of  him  who  uttered  it. 

Nell,  I  can  write  no  more  to-night,  but  in 
a  day  or  two  I  will  go  on. 


XII 

THE    SAME   TO    THE    SAME 

iO  go  on.  John  came  back  early 
in  November.  He  asked  if  I 
had  seen  much  of  Mark.  s- 

I  answered  simply,  "  Yes,  he 
came    and    stayed    at    the    inn 
near  the  cottage." 

They  met  that  evening,  and  perhaps  some- 
thing passed  between  them,  for  they  were 
never  again  very  intimate,  and  Mark's  visits 
ceased  from  that  time.  He  only  came  to 
our  house  once  afterwards,  to  say  good-bye 
before  he  went  abroad  for  some  months  to 
the  Cape,  as  artist  for  his  paper — a  formal 
visit  during  which  my  heart  stood  still.  I 
never  asked  John  for  any  explanation  ;  I 
could  not.  Then  followed  a  weary  time 
enough ;  John  was  at  work  all  day,  and  oc- 
cupied or  out  most  evenings ;  the  winter 
months  went  by — a  long,  dark  winter  of  mis- 
ery and  shame  and  remorse  to  me.  I  want 


LOVE   LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN     l6l 

to  hurry  over  it ;  it  shakes  me  even  now  to 
remember.  .  .  . 

Nellie,  dear,  there  are  some  things  we  do 
of  which  we  can  give  no  account ;  and  there 
is  one  that  I  did  of  which  I  want  to  tell  you. 
In  the  wild  manner  in  which  girls  overdo 
things  I  vowed  that  if  in  the  whirl  and 
twirl  of  time  Fate  should  ever  give  me 
Mark's  love,  that  love  for  which  I  had  hun- 
gered so,  and  if  by  some  strange  twist  he 
should  ask  me  to  be  his  wife,  I  would  refuse 
him  ;  for  what  woman  with  any  pride  at  all 
would  marry  a  man  who  had  heaped  upon 
her  the  insults  that  he  had  heaped  on  me  ? 
Injuries,  nay,  blows,  I  could  have  forgiven, 
but  not  that  which  he  had  done  to  me.  I 
am  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  I  strengthened 
my  vow,  but  one  day  I  walked  alone — a  cold, 
dreary  day  —  to  Kensal  Green,  and  knelt 
down  beside  my  mother's  grave,  and  sobbed 
till  I  thought  my  heart  would  break  ;  and  as 
I  crouched  down,  kissing  the  earth  that  was 
her  covering,  I  swore  as  I  loved  her,  and  as 
I  knew  in  her  life  and  in  her  dying  hour  she 
had  loved  her  children,  that  I  would  never 
more  be  anything  in  the  world  to  Mark,  cost 
me  what  it  might.  "  Never,  never,  mother, 
dear,  I  swear  to  you,"  I  cried,  and  put  my 
face  down  on  the  icy  grass,  and  felt  as 


162  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

though  a  strange  thrill  of  comfort  and  sym- 
pathy came  to  me  from  her  still  heart  be- 
neath. Then  I  walked  back  calmly  and 
with  a  feeling  of  security  I  had  not  known 
for  months. 

Sometimes,  nay,  often,  I  have  thought 
that  all  Mark's  conduct  was  because  he  mis- 
took me.  It  made  my  heart  stand  still  when 
the  idea  first  occurred  to  me — it  seemed  too 
dreadful  to  be  possible — and  yet  again  and 
again  it  has  come  back  to  me— as  the  solu- 
tion of  the  past — it  is  that  he  thought  me 
fast  and  bad.  Honest  men  do  not  make 
love  to  women  as  he  made  love  to  me,  and 
to  women  they  have  known  all  their  lives, 
unless  they  think  them  — ;  but  it  makes 
my  face  burn  with  shame ;  I  cannot  write 
it ;  and  even  then  it  is  despicable  enough, 
and  does  but  save  them  from  the  last  depth 
of  utter  scoundrelism.  But  if  he  did  not 
think — that,  could  he  have  treated  me  as  he 
did  ?  Could  he,  too,  after  the  terms  we  had 
been  on,  have  spoken  of  the  possibility  of 
our  some  day  doing  work  together  and  being 
friends,  "  if  he  liked  my  husband  and  I  liked 
his  wife."  Maddening  as  the  thought  is, 
Nell,  there  is  yet  some  grain  of  secret  com- 
fort in  it,  for  my  baseness  would  have  weak- 
ened his,  have  accounted  for  his  conduct, 


A  WORLDLY  WOMAN  163 

and  I  loved  him  so — I  do  still — that  I  be- 
lieve I  could  send  my  soul  down  any  depth, 
if  by  doing  so  I  could  raise  his. 

It  was  in  the  spring  that  followed  on  that 
winter,  and  while  Mark  was  still  abroad,  that 
John  became  almost  suddenly  famous.  His 
professional  work  prospered  amazingly,  and 
all  things  went  well  with  him,  as  they  have 
done  ever  since.  We  grew  richer,  and  went 
out  more,  entertained  at  home,  and  had 
more  in  all  ways  to  fill  our  lives.  Everybody 
liked  John  ;  he  made  endless  friends — he  is 
so  simple  and  clever,  so  unassuming,  and 
yet  so  perfect  in  his  manner  that  it  is  easy 
to  understand  his  fascination  for  the  world, 
the  ease  with  which  people  loved  him,  and 
the  eagerness  with  which  they  ran  after  him 
when  they  once  came  to  know  him.  The 
result  was  that  he  was  more  and  more  from 
home,  unless  he  stayed  to  help  me  receive 
friends  (and  that  was  not  very  often) ;  he 
joined  societies,  spoke  at  meetings,  and  was 
on  committees,  for  John  has  always  held 
that  a  man  should  play  as  busy  a  part  in  the 
world  as  it  will  let  him.  These  things  drew 
us  further  apart,  not  at  heart,  but  as  regarded 
the  close  intimacy  of  daily  life. 

All  this  time,  and  for  months  past,  Austin 
Brian  had  been  in  love  with  me.  Why, 


1 64  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

Heaven  only  knows,  for  I  had  eyes  and  ears 
for  no  man  —  all  human  beings  were  the 
same  to  me :  I  used  to  feel  like  an  automa- 
ton. He  was  quiet  and  manly  and  clever. 
I  have  often  thought  that,  had  I  never  seen 
Mark,  I  could  have  loved  Austin,  have  mar- 
ried him  ;  but  as  it  was  he  was  a  shadow  to 
me,  a  nothing — he  took  no  hold  on  me  at 
all.  The  moment  he  was  out  of  my  sight  I 
forgot  him  altogether ;  when  he  was  in  it  I 
only  took  the  faintest  interest  in  him — the 
interest  that  comes  of  forcing  one's  self  to 
get  outside  the  prison  into  which  one's  heart 
can  put  one  —  a  solitary,  miserable  cell 
enough  in  which  one  broods  and  hates  one's 
life,  and  beats  against  its  bars,  and  suffers  a 
thousand  times  more  than  if  stone  walls  had 
shut  one  in.  One  day — it  seemed  so  odd  I 
could  have  laughed,  but  that  mentally  I  only 
looked  at  it  in  the  dazed  way  in  which  I 
looked  at  all  things — Austin  Brian  proposed 
to  me.  I  refused  him,  of  course,  and  the 
incident  took  no  hold  on  me.  He  did  not 
avoid  me  afterwards  or  cease  coming  to  the 
house.  At  another  time  this  might  have 
piqued  me,  though  he  had  asked  that  we 
might  remain  friends  j  but  now  I  did  not 
care,  and  scarcely  noticed  it.  That  he  loved 
me  still  I  saw  plainly  enough  in  the  hazy 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  165 

way  I  saw  everything,  but  concern  of  mine 
it  was  none.  I  remember  we  danced  to- 
gether a  good  deal  one  night — it  was  at  the 
Woolwich  ball ;  we  drove  down  to  it  with 
the  Callows,  who  had  made  up  a  party  to  go 
(they  had  relatives  quartered  at  Woolwich, 
and  were  always  going  to  and  fro),  and  at 
the  end  he  said  to  me,  "  I  shall  never  forget 
to-night."  I  looked  up  at  him  in  wonder. 
What  was  there  to  remember  ? 

One  day  a  sort  of  crisis  came — it  was  in 
the  late  summer,  just  before  we  left  town. 
The  morning  brought  a  note  from  Mark. 
He  was  coming  to  England  for  a  week,  but 
should  only  stay  a  couple  of  days  in  Lon- 
don, "  so  there  would  be  no  time  to  look  in, 
but  he  hoped  I  was  all  right ;  he  had  been 
reading  John's  article,"  etc.  Was  not  this 
enough  ?  A  year  before  we  had  been  lovers  ; 
he  had  not  seemed  able  to  bear  a  single  day 
away  from  me  ;  now,  after  months  of  absence, 
he  could  not  manage  to  come  for  even  an 
hour.  ...  I  want  to  put  it  all  shortly.  It 
tries  me  sorely  to  live  over  all  those  past 
days  again.  ...  I  did  not  answer  Mark's  let- 
ter ;  it  was  impossible.  I  did  not  mention 
it  to  John,  for  my  lips  felt  as  if  they  could 
not  say  his  name.  But  I  shed  bitter  tears 
over  his  note.  I  remember  that  in  these 


I 66  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

calm  days,  and  wonder  at  my  passion  then, 
for  I  covered  the  half  sheet  of  paper  with 
wild  kisses  and  loved  him — clinched  it  in 
my  hands  and  loathed  him. 

That  evening  John  did  not  come  home  to 
dinner,  but  sent  me  a  note  saying  he  would 
be  back  by  nine  at  latest.  It  was  late  July, 
and  most  people  had  left  town.  I  could 
eat  nothing,  but  went  out  in  the  twilight, 
feeling  I  could  not  stay  in  the  house.  I 
walked  quickly  away  from  Bolton  Row,  on 
and  on,  till  somehow  I  was  near  the  Regent's 
Park.  Perhaps  it  was  thinking  of  the  Berrys 
that  insensibly  sent  my  feet  towards  them. 
When  I  realized  where  I  was,  I  turned  and 
almost  fled  in  another  direction.  At  last  I 
was  near  Clarence  Gate,  and  then  by  Corn- 
wall Terrace,  all  the  time  feeling  half  dazed 
and  as  if  a  whirlwind  were  before  and  be- 
hind, and  I  walked  between.  Suddenly  some 
one  passing  by  started  and  stopped.  It  was 
Austin  Brian ;  he  looked  at  me  bewildered. 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  I  explained,  "  and 
John  is  not  coming  home  till  nine.  I  wanted 
to  walk  about  alone  ;  perhaps  it  is  an  unusual 
thing  to  do,  but  it  does  not  matter ;  Janet 
could  not  come  with  me."  Probably  my 
voice  or  manner  betrayed  that  I  was  miser- 
able, I  do  not  know,  but  he  seemed  to  divine 


A  WORLDLY  WOMAN  167 

it,  though  he  said  nothing,  only  turned  round 
as  if  to  take  me  back.  Just  to  take  refuge 
from  my  wretched,  miserable  self,  I  let  him 
walk  beside  me.  He  had  infinite  tact  and 
human  feeling.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  years  before  I  had 
but  seen  him  instead  of  Mark.  We  went  on 
together  into  the  park,  for  I  said  that  I 
wanted  to  be  near  the  trees,  and  not  to  go 
back  to  the  four  walls  of  the  drawing-room 
in  Bolton  Row.  We  talked  of  books,  of 
scenery,  of  the  sky  that  had  still  some  fad- 
ing crimson  in  it  from  the  sunset  that  was 
over,  and  every  minute  became  grayer  with 
the  coming  night.  Suddenly  I  felt  some- 
thing at  my  throat ;  a  strange  blinding  came 
before  my  eyes ;  I  knew  that  my  face  was 
white,  my  lips  trembling ;  I  looked  away  into 
the  distance,  longing  to  vanish  into  it  for- 
ever, evermore ;  life  only  made  me  ache  with 
memories,  filled  me  with  dread  of  the  years 
that  seemed  to  stretch  out  before  me,  a  vista 
of  waiting  and  tiredness  I  had  not  strength 
or  courage  to  face.  For  a  moment  I  thought 
my  senses  were  going.  He  looked  at  me  in 
wonder  and  alarm,  for  I  had  stopped,  feeling 
as  if  I  could  not  go  on. 

"  I  am  so  tired,"  I  gasped ;  "  I  think  I  shall 
die."  The  words  came  piteously  —  it  was 
only  by  a  violent  effort  that  I  kept  back  the 


l68  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

hopeless  tears  that  struggled  to  come  into 
my  eyes.  As  if  he  understood,  he  drew  my 
hand  onto  his  arm  with  a  tenderness  like 
that  of  a  mother's  to  a  worn-out  child ;  he 
looked  down  at  me  and  almost  supported 
me. 

"You  are  very  tired;  I  can  see  that,"  he 
said,  gently ;  "  and  sad,  too.  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me — that  I  could  help  you;  I  would  give 
my  life  to  be  of  the  very  least  service  to  you." 
There  was  no  passion  in  the  voice,  only  a 
depth,  an  affection  that  carried  just  for  one 
lone  moment  an  infinite  rest  into  my  soul. 
He  was  so  strong,  too,  with  the  manly 
strength  that  is  born  of  many  things,  but 
most,  perhaps,  of  gentleness ;  and  the  men 
who  possess  this  are  our  unconscious  mas- 
ters for  good,  just  as  perhaps  the  men  of 
Mark's  type  are  our  masters  for  evil.  A  few 
minutes  later  he  had  called  a  hansom  and 
was  driving  me  back.  I  thought  of  that 
first  drive  to  the  studio  with  Mark,  the  man 
I  had  loved  so  well,  and  of  this  with  the  man 
whom  I  knew  loved  me.  He  was  going  to 
leave  me  at  the  door,  but  a  sort  of  despera- 
tion came  over  me.  John  was  probably  at 
home,  or  would  be  immediately,  but  he 
would  be  busy,  and  I  should  be  left  again 
to  brood  over  my  own  imaginings. 


A  WORLDLY  WOMAN  169 

"  Come  in,"  I  said  ;  "  John  will  be  glad  to 
see  you.  We  have  tea  at  half-past  nine ;  come 
and  have  a  cup."  He  entered  gladly ;  per- 
haps he  thought  it  encouragement.  John 
had  not  returned  ;  he  did  not  come  for  a  long 
time.  In  half  an  hour  Austin  Brian  was 
pleading  his  cause  again  in  this  little  draw- 
ing-room where  you  and  I  met  again  the 
other  day  after  the  long  years  of  absence. 
He  was  good,  Nell,  and  he  loved  me ;  he 
wanted  to  take  care  of  me,  to  give  me  a 
bright  and  happy  life ;  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand how  lonely  I  was,  to  know  all  the 
longings  that  were  mine  years  ago — of  any- 
thing but  the  best  in  one  he  had  no  compre- 
hension. And  he  was  not  afraid  or  ashamed 
to  speak  as  was  the  other  man,  on  whom  I 
had  wasted  my  life's  love.  I  knew  that  with 
him  I  should  have  rest  and  security,  that 
the  better  side  of  me  would  live  and  the  bad 
shrink  ashamed  away.  Above  all,  I  felt  how 
truly  he  loved  me.  I  was  very  grateful  to 
him,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  in  my  power  to 
do  some  good,  to  make  some  one  happy— 
I,  to  whom  happiness  was  forever  denied, 
might  do  this. 

"  I  never  loved  any  woman  but  you,"  he 
said,  simply  ;  "  I  never  shall."  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  it  all  came  about,  but  somehow  I 


170  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

promised  to  marry  him,  told  him  I  would 
try  to  love  him,  to  be  happy,  and  let  him  kiss 
me  just  once,  thinking  the  while  with  a 
shuddering  shame,  though  my  heart  still 
quickened  with  love  as  well  as  with  scorn  of 
him,  of  Mark's  first  kiss  in  the  garden  at 
Poona.  Then  John  came  home,  and  Austin 
went  up  and  told  him  straight,  brimming 
over  with  joy  while  he  spoke  and  not  striv- 
ing to  hide  it,  and  in  a  flash  it  seemed  I  was 
engaged  and  all  my  future  arranged.  For 
the  first  few  hours  I  was  too  dazed  to  com- 
prehend altogether  what  I  had  done,  to  feel 
keenly  anything  save  a  sense  of  serenity,  of 
rest,  of  almost  strained  thankfulness  ;  but  a 
day  later  and  I  was  repenting  wildly,  feeling 
like  a  prisoner,  like  one  who  had  shut  the 
door  on  all  possibilities.  And  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  ;  I  was  no  longer  a  mere 
girl ;  it  was  my  own  deed — I  was  wretched 
— nearly  mad.  Suddenly  it  struck  me  that 
Mark  would  understand  the  agony  and 
shame  I  had  gone  through  if  I  told  him 
all,  and  that  perhaps,  if  only  for  fear  of  any 
words  in  this  world  being  forever  too  late, 
would  speak  up  at  last  and  set  things  right 
to  my  heart,  though  it  was  forever  too  late 
to  set  them  right  outwardly.  He  would 
surely  counsel  me,  I  thought — would  be 


A  WORLDLY  WOMAN  171 

gentle  to  me  this  once.  Had  we  not  spent 
long  days  and  weeks  together,  content  to 
be  the  boundaries  of  each  other's  world? 
Oh,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  though  never 
his  lips  had  said  it,  he  must  have  had  some 
love,  some  care  for  me  ;  and  if  but  for  a 
single  moment  I  might  know  it,  I  could  walk 
in  silence  and  calmness  forever  after,  though 
I  never  set  eyes  on  his  dear  face  again. 
Besides,  I  had  had  no  secrets  from  him  for 
so  long,  had  lived  no  life  that  he  had  not 
governed,  I  could  not  bear  by  my  own  doing 
to  know  that  our  lives  were  forever  sepa- 
rated. So  I  wrote  and  told  him  that  I  was 
engaged  ;  that  I  had  somehow  let  it  come 
about,  and  that  though  I  saw  how  good  and 
true  Austin  was,  I  was  not  in  love  with  him, 
and  chafed  and  wanted  to  be  free  again. 

He  replied  quickly  enough,  saying  how 
glad  he  was ;  he  had  wanted  to  see  me 
married ;  he  did  not  understand  my  not  be- 
ing satisfied;  soon  I  would  wonder  at  my 
own  impatience,  and  so  on.  How  that  let- 
ter fretted  me,  how  like  my  own  funeral  ser- 
mon it  seemed  ;  I  put  it  away  for  a  while, 
then  I  burned  it,  holding  it  down  with  the 
poker  while  it  blazed,  lest,  like  a  fiend,  it 
should  rise,  and  its  words  madden  me  again. 
Then  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  martyrdom  of 


172  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

my  engagement — an  odd,  exaggerated  word 
to  use.  But  it  was  nothing  less,  and  all  the 
more  a  martyrdom  because  I  felt  that  had 
I  never  seen  Mark  I  could  have  been  con- 
tent— have  loved  and  married  Austin,  that 
he  would  have  satisfied  all  the  higher  feel- 
ings in  my  nature — the  eager  searching  for 
ideals,  the  strivings  after  better  things  than 
those  within  my  immediate  reach.  But,  as 
it  was,  it  could  not  be;  nothing  could  be  save 
my  despair.  I  realized  that  I  was  a  woman 
with  a  past,  that  in  my  heart  there  were 
memories  of  days  and  hours  and  meetings 
of  which  I  could  never  tell  a  husband  through 
all  the  years  of  life  that  we  might  spend  to- 
gether, that  forever  I  should  be  a  deception 
to  him.  How  could  I  tell  him  of  all  that 
had  been,  shared  as  it  was  with  a  man  who 
never  once  had  said  he  loved  me  ?  If  Mark 
had  only  spared  me  that.  I  have  so  often 
thought  that  he  should  have  lied  to  me, 
have  pretended  that  he  loved  me,  that  he 
would  have  done  so  had  he  not  taken  me 
for  all  that  I  dread  to  think.  He  would  not 
surely  have  put  into  the  life  of  a  woman  he 
thought  good  and  pure  all  the  shame  that 
he  put  into  mine  ?  Mind  this,  dear  Nell,  that 
had  I  done  all  that  I  did  for  a  man  I  loved 
and  who  had  loved  me  I  should  have  thought 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  173 

little  of  the  shame ;  but  to  have  done  it  for  a 
man  who  did  not  even  think  me  worth  a 
pretence  of  love  —  oh,  bitter  pain  indeed, 
bitter  pain  that  made  my  very  soul  rock 
with  misery,  and  memories  that  stupefied 
me. 

And  yet,  with  the  sight  of  Austin's  face, 
with  the  sound  of  his  voice,  there  came  ever 
a  sense  of  peace,  of  rest  and  thankfulness,  a 
view  of  life,  a  dream,  a  vista  that  made  my 
heart  yearn — but  that  I  knew  had  come  too 
late.  It  was  like  a  sight  of  heavenly  still- 
ness to  the  worn  and  passionate  soul  that, 
stretching  out  to  reach  earthly  bliss,  had 
slipped  down,  down  into  the  torments  below. 
And  day  by  day  he  loved  me  more,  and  for- 
ever he  would  say,  and  seemed  to  delight  in 
saying,  how  good  and  pure  and  sweet  I  was ; 
he  believed  in  me  as  though  I  had  been  a 
saint,  an  ideal  of  all  that  was  best  in  woman- 
hood. It  was  for  my  sore  punishment  that 
it  should  be  so,  perhaps.  ...  I  could  not  go 
on  bearing  it,  Nell ;  I  could  not.  One  night, 
after  he  had  protested  his  love  for  me,  look- 
ing into  my  face  as  only  one's  lover  does, 
suddenly  I  spoke.  I  begged  him  to  set  me 
free.  I  told  him  that  I  was  bad  and  wicked, 
and  could  not  put  into  words  all  that  was 
in  my  heart,  or  tell  him  of  by-gones  that 


174  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

I  remembered ;  but  that  I  could  not  marry 
him— I  was  not  fit  to  do  so;  that  I  was  worn 
and  hard  and  cold  towards  all  people  save 
one,  and  from  even  him  I  recoiled.  "  I  want 
to  be  free  and  alone,"  I  cried;  "forever 
alone,"  and  I  clasped  my  hands  and  implored 
him  to  let  me  go. 

I  "cannot  tell  you  more.  He  went  to 
Egypt-  A  year  later  he  was  killed  in  some 
accidental  skirmish.  The  news  of  his  death 
fell  on  my  ear  like  the  sound  of  a  death-bell 
to  a  murderer.  ...  Oh  God,  what  a  life  it 
has  been,  this  inner  life  of  mine,  of  which  no 
one  knows  or  suspects  !  Yes,  my  life,  Madge 
Brooke's,  who  is  supposed  to  be  cold  and 
worldly,  to  have  made  many  conquests,  and 
to  care  only  for  them  and  for  society.  .  .  . 

I  told  Mark  it  was  broken  off.  He  wrote 
and  regretted  it ;  he  felt  sure  that  "  it  would 
have  been  better  to  have  married  a  good 
fellow  really  fond  of  me."  The  way  in  which 
he  spoke  of  any  one  being  fond  of  me  was 
cynical,  as  though  he  half  doubted  the  pos- 
sibility. 

I  have  so  often  wished  that  I  could  kill 
him,  that  I  could  see  him  lying  stark  and 
dead,  and  know  that  I  had  done  it ;  I  would 
put  my  face  against  his  till  its  icy  coldness 
sent  a  shudder  through  me,  and  then  for  all 


A   WORLDLY    WOMAN  175 

eternity  suffer  torments,  burn  and  burn  till 
my  heart  and  soul,  that  felt  so  black  and 
wicked,  were  white,  white  ashes. 

I  used  to  see  Austin's  dead  face  at  one 
time,  no  matter  where  I  turned  or  what  I 
did ;  but  now  it  has  gone,  passed  on  with 
the  shadows  into  far  eternity ;  and  still — oh, 
Nellie,  for  my  sad  curse — I  sometimesMove 
that  man  whose  cowardice  has  ruined  me, 
body  and  soul.  I  saw  him  once  after  Aus- 
tin's death;  that  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him 
at  all.  I  called  at  the  Berrys'  one  day. 
Some  fascination  makes  me  go  there  every 
now  and  then  ;  they,  knowing  nothing,  think 
it  is  mere  passing  civility  to  themselves.  He 
was  there,  and  when  I  came  away  he  came 
too,  and  walked  home  with  me.  I  was  cold 
and  silent — it  piqued  him,  I  suppose,  for  he 
grew  almost  tender,  and  talked  of  old  days, 
till  I  thought  my  heart  would  burst ;  but  I 
kept  my  lips  shut.  Then  suddenly  he  turned 
and  reproached  me  in  roundabout  ways — he 
never  in  his  life  spoke  up  like  a  man,  for 
good  or  evil — for  having  been  false  to  him. 
He  had  not  gone  off,  he  said,  and  got  en- 
gaged to  some  one  else ;  he  had  not  forgot- 
ten so  soon.  Could  he  fall  lower  than  that — 
be  more  contemptible  ?  I  could  not  answer 
him,  but  I  looked  up  and  felt  the  tears  come 


1/6  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

into  my  eyes.  He  has  been  all  my  life,  and 
I  have  loved  him  as  few  women  love  in  these 
cold-hearted  days.  Even  that  afternoon,  as 
I  walked  beside  him  from  the  Berrys',  I  could 
have  respected  him  again,  loved  him  again,  if 
he  had  but  once  said  out  that  he  loved  me, 
or  had  loved  me;  or  that  he  had  not  loved  me 
and  begged  my  forgiveness  for  his  treachery ; 
but  no,  honesty  and  manliness  with  him  do 
not  include  truthfulness  and  courage  towards 
women.  I  think  that  accusation  of  being 
false  to  him  was  a  revelation  of  all  things. 
Then  I  understood  him,  and  shall  for  ever- 
more— or,  at  least,  I  think  so.  False  ?  Why, 
if  I  had  worshipped  Austin  Brian,  and  had 
married  him  and  lived  with  him  all  my  days, 
and  the  world  had  quoted  me  as  a  devoted 
wife,  I  should  still  have  been  no  more  false 
than  is  the  girl  who,  when  all  earthly  happi- 
ness is  at  an  end,  and  human  hopes  have 
passed  her  by,  takes  her  miserable  heart  to  a 
convent,  and  throws  herself  at  her  Saviour's 
feet  with  an  adoration  that  is  half  despair. 

This  is  my  story,  dear.  It  ended  three 
years  ago  ;  but  a  few  days  since  I  heard  that 
Mark,  who  has  been  roaming  about,  was 
coming  back  to  England  again  for  good.  I 
long,  yet  dread,  to  meet  him,  though  I  see 
clearly  enough  now,  and  understand  him. 


A  WORLDLY  WOMAN  177 

Do   not  hate   me  because  you   know   me 
through  and  through. 

Next  time  I  shall  tell  you  of  frivolities, 
and  forget  that  the  world  holds  anything 
beneath  the  surface  on  which  the  sun  shines. 
Oh,  the  mistake,  the  sorrow,  the  tragedy  of 
human  feeling !  Thank  Heaven  that  I  have 
done  with  it !  MADGE. 


XIII 

MADGE   TO   NELLIE 

March  6,  1884. 

is  a  month  since  I  wrote  to  you 
last,  those  nightmare  letters.  I 
am  better  now ;  for  the  past  is 
only  a  grave  on  which  in  this 
present  time  I  stamp  my  angry 
feet.  Fate  has,  after  all,  not  been  so  very 
cruel,  and  I  am  thankful,  behind  all  my  oth- 
er feeings,  that  Mark's  path  and  mine  lie 
apart.  He  is  well  enough  or  ill  enough  to 
have  loved,  to  have  made  into  a  romance ; 
but  had  we  married,  how  I  should  have 
hated  him  by  this  time,  save  in  those  wild 
moments  when  I  was  blind  to  all  that  was 
best  on  earth. 

I  sometimes  think  that,  without  meaning 
or  knowing  it,  the  Berrys  helped  to  separate 
us.  They  have  different  ideas  from  his  and 
mine  on  all  things,  and  they  are  primly  evan- 
gelical. They  are  a  little  cynically  inclined, 


LOVE  LETTERS  OB'  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN    179 

too,  as  people  sometimes  are  who  have  lit- 
tle belief  in  human  nature,  or  who  have  not 
been  lucky  in  their  friends.  I  knew  this, 
and  during  that  last  weary  winter,  when 
Mark  and  I  were  living  out  the  end  of  our 
play,  and  I  was  learning  my  bitter  lesson,  I 
used  to  go  to  the  Berrys',  and,  with  a  half- 
scornful  daring  I  could  not  explain,  say 
things  that  I  knew  would  be  repeated  and 
commented  on,  and  in  my  soul  I  scoffed 
and  scorned  him  for  judging  me  by  hear- 
say. All  the  years  he  has  been  away  I  have 
done  the  same.  Mrs.  Berry  told  me  she 
wrote  to  him  once  a  month ;  I  tried  to  give 
her  something  to  say — I  knew  how  he  would 
sneer  at  this  or  interpret  that  after  his  own 
fashion,  and  I  have  lavished  a  measureless 
scorn  upon  him  in  my  silent  heart  for  doing 
so.  But  enough. 

I  am  glad  you  have  had  a  visit  from  John, 
dear  Nell.  He  gave  no  hint  of  his  inten- 
tion till  the  morning  he  was  starting;  then 
suddenly  he  said : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  missed  Nellie,  and 
shall  run  down  to  Worcester  for  a  day  to 
see  her."  He  was  always  fond  of  you ;  no 
wonder  he  wanted  to  see  you  again.  He  said 
you  were  very  gentle  and  sweet,  and  did  him 
a  world  of  good.  Ask  him  again,  if  you  can. 


l8o  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

There  is  a  scrap  of  news  that  amused  me 
when  I  heard  it :  James  Harrison  is  staying 
at  Daffodil.  Aunt  Maria  invited  him — the 
once  despised  James  Harrison.  She  wrote 
and  told  me  that  he  was  there,  that  he  was 
very  different  from  formerly,  most  fastidious 
in  his  tastes,  that  he  found  her  dear  girls 
charming,  and  that  she  greatly  admired  him. 
It  is  easy  to  see  through :  she  means  to  let 
Isabel  marry  him ;  Grace  is  already  en- 
gaged to  a  clergyman  who  has  a  church 
somewhere  in  the  West  Indies — a  dismal 
prospect.  Well,  Isabel  will  make  a  good, 
submissive  little  wife  to  James:  probably 
she  will  like  the  house  in  Gower  Street — 
will  think  it  altogether  satisfying.  Yes,  it 
is  a  match  that  would  do  ;  I  hope  with  all 
my  heart  it  will  come  off,  and  poor  old  James 
be  happy  at  last. 

What  else  ?  I  have  strengthened  my  soul 
by  reading  some  Browning.  How  well  he 
makes  one  love  strong  men  !  His  women, 
too,  have  hearts  that  beat  and  blood  that 
flows  quickly  through  their  veins.  A  living 
world  he  gives  us,  and  not  a  world  of  pulse- 
less shadows  that  seem  only  to  move  in  the 
moonlight,  and  to  have  no  strength  for  the 
light  of  day. 

Yesterday  Lady  Mary  Sully  came  to  see 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  l8l 

me ;  she  is  some  relation  of  Sir  Noel's,  and 
seems  to  take  a  sentimental  interest  in  me. 
If  she  did  but  know — but  I  forget — have  I 
told  you  about  Sir  Noel  Franks  ?  He  comes 
here  often  ?  Do  you  know  him  by  reputa- 
tion ?  He  is  clever  and  diplomatic  ;  people 
say  he  will  be  in  the  next  Government,  that 
he  is  one  of  the  coming  men  in  politics. 
He  ought  to  be  "come,"  not  "coming,"  for 
he  is  fifty,  and  looks  it,  very  bald,  very  si- 
lent, and  a  little  sombre ;  cold  in  manner, 
careful  in  making  a  statement,  rather  state- 
ly and  dried-up-looking,  withal  interesting. 
Plan -making  and  ambitious,  I  should  say; 
he  interests  me  in  a  cold  and  intellectual 
manner ;  he  would  not  be  bad  if  one  wished 
to  make  a  worldly  marriage.  He  contem- 
plates making  an  unsentimental  one  with 
me  if  I  will  have  him.  I  know  that ;  I  hear 
it  in  his  voice,  polite  and  complimentary; 
see  it  in  his  eye,  criticising  but  satisfied. 
He  thinks  I  should  do,  dear  Nell.  I  am 
much  flattered,  but  I  keep  his  proposal  at 
bay  for  the  present.  In  the  future  I  may 
bring  it  on  to  refuse  and  have  doue  with,  or 
to  deliberately  accept.  Love  is  a  finished 
story,  and  if  I  marry  it  must  be  from  am- 
bition. Love  is  not  all,  I  s^id  a  few  letters 
back,  and  it  is  true  ;  moreover,  with  my 


1 82  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

past  and  my  feelings,  I  could  not  endure  to 
marry  a  man  overmuch  in  love  with  me. 
He  might  be  demonstrative  and  affection- 
ate. It  would  drive  me  mad ;  I  should  hate 
him.  I  am  not  dead  enough  even  yet  to 
endure  sentiment  I  do  not  share.  Things 
cannot  go  on  always  as  they  are  now.  John 
will  marry,  I  hope,  and  I  must  make  a  home 
somewhere.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can  make 
it  alone ;  I  am  not  sufficiently  strong-mind- 
ed ;  and  though  I  do  not  want  love,  the  fem- 
inine instincts  are  still  strong  within  me,  and 
I  hunger  after  being  cared  for  in  some  sort 
of  fashion — the  colder  the  better.  I  want 
to  be  a  consideration  to  some  one,  nay,  even 
a  burden ;  I  want  to  spend  some  one's  mon- 
ey— a  droll  thing  to  say,  but  I  do  not  say  it 
in  a  mercenary  spirit,  but  only  because  there 
is  an  unconscious  pleasure  in  the  exercise 
of  one's  feminine  weaknesses,  to  be  the  first 
person  in  some  one's  home,  the  chief  person 
in  some  one's  life,  the  person  he  was  bound 
to  consider  first;  and  the  more  distinguished 
the  man,  the  greater  would  be  my  inward 
satisfaction :  since  love  is  denied  me,  all  this 
is  my  longing.  A  career  for  myself  I  simply 
could  not  endure  except  that  which  consist- 
ed in  helping  to  make  one  for  some  one  else. 
Yes,  I  think  I  could  find  life  wrorth  living,  if 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  183 

I  must  live— and  life  is  a  terribly  persistent 
thing — in  helping  a  clever  man,  and  espe- 
cially a  diplomatist,  to  make  a  career — could 
know  something  that  would  even  pass  itself 
for  happiness,  in  sharing  the  rewards  that  in 
my  secret  soul  I  knew  I  had  helped  to  win. 
There  is  an  excitement,  too,  in  helping  to 
govern  the  country,  to  make  history,  as  do 
all  clever  men  who  take  an  active  part  in 
public  affars.  I  should  like,  if  I  marry,  to 
gain  that  as  compensation  for  all  that  will 
never  come  to  my  heart  again.  But  I  have 
kept  Sir  Noel  at  bay.  I  cannot  bring  my- 
self to  take  the  final  step,  and  there  is  no 
occasion  while  I  still  have  my  dear  John. 

I  have  almost  a  horror,  so  strong  is  my 
shrinking,  of  facing  the  world  alone  ;  but 
for  that  I  would  not  contemplate  marriage 
at  all,  and  only  can  contemplate  it  in  the 
shape  of  an  ambitious  outside  life ;  a  quiet 
one,  such  as  James  Harrison  thought  might 
satisfy  me,  would  be  worse  than  suicide. 
But  to  go  back  to  Lady  Mary.  She  called 
yesterday  and  sat  a  long  time  telling  me  Sir 
Noel's  history.  He  was  very  much  in  love 
when  he  was  a  young  man  with  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  West  Country  parson  ;  they  were 
engaged,  and  he  was  devoted  to  her;  she 
jilted  him  to  make  a  grander  marriage,  for 


184  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

he  was  then  poor  and  without  prospects. 
She  became  a  fashionable  person,  a  leader 
in  society,  and  finally  went  abroad  with  her 
husband,  who  is  governor  at  an  important 
place.  Sir  Noel  gave  up  sentiment  after 
this  experience,  has  never  cared  for  women 
since,  and  is  not  likely  to  do  so  now.  I 
think,  from  what  Lady  Mary  says,  that  he 
felt  a  certain  dogged  joy  at  first  in  succeed- 
ing to  a  relation's  money,  in  being  success- 
ful ;  but  all  this  is  merged  now  in  the  eager- 
ness of  the  statesman.  Still,  though  he  has 
ceased  to  take  a  keen  interest  in  women,  he 
feels  that  the  time  has  come  when  it  would 
be  as  well  to  marry.  He  thinks,  as  I  say, 
that  I  should  do.  Perhaps  I  shall,  dear 
Nell ;  I  do  not  know.  I  have  become  a 
cold  and  worldly  woman,  just  as  he  has  be- 
come a  cold  and  worldly  man.  So  we  should 
agree,  neither  expecting  nor  desiring  nor  ex- 
acting impossible  things  of  each  other,  yet 
finding  plenty  to  fill  our  lives,  and  having 
joint  interests  enough  to  make  us  pull  to- 
gether with  a  certain  pleasantness. 

Dear,  it  is  two  years  since  your  husband 
died.  Could  you  not  bear  to  come  to  town 
for  a  bit  and  stay  here  ?  You  must  bring 
the  child,  of  course.  I  should  love  to  hear 
the  sound  of  your  footsteps  up  and  down 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  185 

the  stairs,  to  listen  to  your  voice,  to  see 
your  little  one,  to  play  with  it  and  nurse  it. 
I  am  hungry  for  the  sight  of  a  child  that 
belongs  to  some  one  who  is  dear  to  me. 
What  a  wonderful  thing  it  must  be  to  have 
a  child  of  one's  own  if  one  loves,  or  has 
loved,  its  father !  To  know  that  the  life  is 
there  because  you  and  he  have  loved,  and 
out  of  your  love  has  grown  all  the  immortal- 
ity that  humanity  in  itself  can  know.  Life 
after  life  may  dawn,  even  race  after  race 
may  grow,  and  a  strong  nation  rise  because 
in  the  beginning  two  people  have  loved  each 
other.  Your  child  and  his,  your  life  and  his 
going  on  when  you  and  he  alike  are  gone, 
and  her  child,  perhaps,  after  her ;  and  again 
and  again ;  all  because  in  the  by-gone  days 
you  two  loved  and  were  together.  I  wish 
you  would  come,  dear,  and  stay — as  long  a 
time  as  you  can.  You  would  make  me  bet- 
ter, more  womanly — you  see  how  selfish  I 
am  in  wanting  you — you  would  soften  me. 
Sometimes,  now,  I  feel  so  hard.  It  is  only 
a  shell ;  but  there  are  shells  that  nothing 
can  break ;  I  do  not  want  to  own  one  of 
them,  to  be  forever  beyond  reach  of  the 
best  in  the  world — you  and  your  child,  Nel- 
lie, and  the  like  of  you. 

We  dine  out  to-night,  go  to  the  Grahams' 


l86    LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN 

"  at  home,"  and  the  Tetleys'  ball  afterwards. 
I  like  it ;  like  to  look  at  the  people,  each  one 
with  his  history,  his  secrets,  his  ambitions, 
his  memories,  all  nicely  veneered  over  for 
the  evening  with  a  convenient  social  man- 
ner. I  like  to  see  the  little  crowd  on  the 
pavement  outside,  watching  the  guests  de- 
scend from  their  carriages,  dim  figures  that 
seem  to  have  come  out  of  the  darkness  to 
watch  us  step  into  the  light.  I  see  their 
eyes  on  me,  I  feel  them  watch  me  enter  the 
place  into  which  they  peer  so  curiously,  and 
I  think  how  merrily  I  could  laugh  if  sud- 
denly I  might  be  one  of  them ;  if  I  might 
go  back  to  a  cellar-home,  and  fan  the  fire 
into  a  blaze,  and  by  its  light  look  up  at 
homely  faces  that  loved  me  and  made  the 
whole  wide  world  a  blessed  place,  no  matter 
whether  pain  or  poverty  came  or  lagged.  I 
am  a  fool,  Nell,  a  fool,  for  I  long  and  hanker 
after  love  still,  though  it  is  all  over  and  done 
with  forever  and  forever.  I  will  write  and 
ask  Sir  Noel  and  some  others  to  dine  as  an 
antidote  to  all  this  nonsense.  Come  and 
stay,  Nellie.  I  long  for  you. 


XIV 

MADGE   TO   MARK   CUTHBERTSON 

March  8,  1884. 

>EAR  MARK,  — John  told  me 
that  you  were  back,  and  of  his 
meeting  with  you  yesterday, 
and  that  you  said  you  wanted 
to  come  and  see  me.  It  is  a 
little  formal  to  write  and  ask  leave  after 
that,  is  it  not  ?  But  perhaps  you  have  many 
engagements  and  no  time  to  come  just  on 
the  chance  of  rinding  me  at  home.  So  this 
is  to  tell  you  that  you  will  find  me  any  day, 
as  a  rule,  at  about  five.  Or  will  you  come 
and  dine  at  eight  on  Wednesday  next  week  ? 
John  told  me  to  invite  you.  One  or  two 
others  are  coming;  not  many. 

Yours,  M.  B. 


XV 

MADGE   TO    NELLIE 

March  qth. 

ARK  has  sent  me  a  note,  one  of 
his  own  vague,  incomprehensi- 
ble ones.    He  is  coming  to  dine 
P«»^         on  Wednesday.     All   the   rest 

you  shall  know  later. 
One  thing  more  only :  James  Harrison 
and  Isabel  are  engaged.  How  glad  I  am 
for  him,  for  perhaps  he  will  be  happy  at  last ! 
She,  too,  will  be  happy,  I  think.  But  Aunt 
Maria's  tactics  are  amusing.  Poor,  despised 
James  Harrison  !  It  is  a  topsy-turvy  world, 
dear  Nell.  Come  and  stay  in  this  portion 
of  it  with  John  and  me  for  a  bit. 


XVI 

MADGE    TO   JAMES    HARRISON 

March  8,  1884. 

»EAR  COUSIN  JAMES,— That 
is  what  I  shall  call  you  in  fut- 
ure. Has  it  a  pleasant  sound  ? 
I  am  delighted,  indeed,  to 
hear  of  your  engagement  to  Is- 
abel. I  had  an  idea  of  what  might  happen, 
I  confess,  when  I  heard  that  you  were  stay- 
ing again  at  that  most  beguiling  Daffodil. 
My  best  and  truest  and  most  cordial  wishes 
for  your  happiness  now  and  always,  and  for 
hers,  too — you  must  consider  this  letter  to 
be  written  to  you  both.  Nothing  could  have 
given  me  greater  pleasure  than  your  news 
this  morning. 

I  feel  sure  that  you  are  very  lucky,  dear 
cousin,  for  you  have  had  all  sorts  of  worldly 
prosperity  already,  and  now  you  are  going 
to  have  a  dear  little  wife,  and  your  children 


190    LOVE   LETTERS   OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN 

the  kindest  of  mothers.    Tell  Isabel  I  throw 
up  my  hat  for  joy  on  her  behalf. 

I  shall  come  to  your  wedding  and  dance 
merrily  if  Aunt  Maria  gives  us  the  oppor- 
tunity. I  am  glad  it  is  to  be  immediately. 
"  Happy  is  the  wooing  that's  not  long  a-do- 
ing,"  says  the  song  or  the  proverb. 

Till  then,  you  two,  farewell. 

MADGE  BROOKE. 


XVII 

MADGE   TO    NELLIE 

March  i$tk. 

AM  sorry  you  cannot  give  us 
more  than  a  week,  dearest  Nell, 
but  that  is  better  than  nothing. 
John  will  meet  you  at  Padding- 
ton  on  Friday,  at  five.  We  will 
have  a  happy  time,  and  pretend  that  we  are 
all  children  again. 

Yes,  I  will  tell  you  about  Mark.  He 
dined  here  last  night,  but  he  hardly  said 
three  words  to  me.  He  flirted  the  whole 
time  with  little  Mrs.  Browson.  She  is  young 
and  fresh,  of  the  dairy-maid  type,  but  very 
pretty,  with  lovely  coloring.  Her  husband 
is  a  rising  barrister,  exceedingly  calm  and 
abstracted.  I  think  he  is  grateful  to  any  man 
who  flirts  with  his  wife — it  takes  some  of  her 
exuberance  off  his  hands  ;  moreover,  he  con- 
siders it  a  sign  of  the  social  success  that  I 
somehow  divine  to  be  his  secret  ambition. 


Ip2  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

Two  days  before  the  dinner  Mark  called 
here,  late  in  the  afternoon ;  I  felt  my  heart 
stand  still  when  he  entered.  It  was  three 
years  and  more  since  we  had  met.  He  is  a 
little  stouter ;  he  does  not  look  such  abso- 
lutely good  form  as  in  the  old  days — his 
appearance  does  not  gratify  one's  vanity  so 
much.  His  expression,  too,  is  not  so  good ; 
it  is  more  worldly ;  there  is  greater  sug- 
gestion of  sarcasm  in  the  tone  of  his  voice. 
We  looked  at  each  other  swiftly;  we  both 
remembered — 

"  I  thought  I  would  come  and  see  you 
before  Wednesday— we  can't  talk  much  at 
a  dinner-party.  I  wish  you  would  not  give 
one,"  he  laughed.  His  laugh  went  through 
me,  and  brought  back  a  hundred  memories. 
"  Why,  you  are  not  much  changed.  Wom- 
en generally  change  a  good  deal  in  three 
years,"  he  added. 

"Perhaps  I  am  really — "  I  began,  but 
could  not  go  on.  It  was  so  strange  to  see 
him,  to  hear  him  speak  again,  to  remember 
how  I  had  cared  for  him.  Did  I  care  still  ? 
Do  I  ?  Ah,  Nell,  I  do  not  know.  He  has 
a  power  over  me,  a  spell,  an  influence,  but 
what  it  is  I  do  not  know. 

He  stayed  to  tea ;  I  watched  him  narrow- 
ly, half  afraid.  Once,  when  I  handed  him  a 


A  WORLDLY  WOMAN  193 

cup,  his  hand  for  a  moment  touched  mine — 
it  went  through  me  and  made  me  shiver. 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

"  And  you  are  not  married  yet  ?"  he  said, 
in  the  old,  mocking  manner. 

"  No." 

"  You  ought  to  be.  Time  is  getting  on  ; 
you  are  not  a  girl  any  longer."  Could  any- 
thing be  in  less  good  taste  ? 

"  No ;  but  marriage  is  not  everything,"  I 
answered. 

"  It  generally  is — to  women." 

"  Oh  no — not  now." 

"Unless  they  are  strong-minded." 

"  I  am  not  strong-minded,"  I  answered, 
"  and  it  is  not  everything  to  me." 

"You  are  so  inconstant,"  he  laughed. 
"You  are  not  to  be  trusted." 

"  What  do  you   mean  ?"  I  asked. 

"  What  I  say,"  he  answered.  There  was 
a  little  scorn  in  his  manner  that  galled  me 
to  the  quick. 

"  Mark,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  I  demanded, 
in  a  voice  that  I  knew  was  half  entreating. 
"  Speak  out  plainly." 

"  Don't  make  a  scene,"  he  said.  "We  had 
better  change,  the  subject.  I  must  be  going 
in  a  few  minutes." 

"  I  don't  want  to  change  the  subject,"  I  said. 


194  LOVE   LETTERS  OF 

"  I  do,"  he  answered,  shortly.  "  Tell  me 
how  you  spend  your  time.  The  Berrys  say 
you  are  always  going  out.  Turned  into  a 
fashionable  woman  ;  eh,  Madge  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  no." 

11 1  prefer  to  think  of  you  as  the  little  girl 
I  remember  at  Daffodil  years  and  years  ago 
— we  won't  say  4iow  many,  since  it  is  a  sore 
subject." 

Nell,  that  man  is  like  a  scourge  to  me; 
and  yet,  unless  I  loathe  him,  I  love  him  still. 
The  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  and  I  could 
not  help  it,  while  I  answered  : 

"I  am  the  little  girl  still,  at  heart  — I 
am—" 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  answered,  as  if 
he  did  not  in  the  least  believe  me. 

"  The  girl  who  spent  all  those  days  on  the 
river  three  years  ago."  Was  it  my  evil 
genius  that  made  me  say  it  ? 

"We  won't  talk  of  those,  if  you  please," 
he  said,  decisively. 

"  Why  ?" 

"You  are  a  good  deal  changed  since  then," 
he  answered,  in  the  same  tone ;  and  after 
a  moment's  hesitation  he  added,  "and  so 
am  I." 

"Why  did  you  come  and  see  me?"  I 
asked,  trying  to  pull  myself  together. 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  195 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see 
me — that  I  should  like  to  see  you." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  I  said.  "  It  is 
always  pleasant  to  see  old  friends." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so.  I  should  have 
thought  you  could  forget — even  old  friends," 
he  answered,  watching  me  narrowly. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean." 

lt  Nothing,"  he  laughed,  in  a  manner  that 
galled  me  to  the  quick. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  work,"  I  asked,  try- 
ing to  change  the  subject. 

"We  have  not  painted  our  picture  yet, 
Madge,"  he  said,  with  sudden  gravity. 

"  We  will  paint  it  later  on  in  life,"  I  an- 
swered, "  when  we  are  both  married — that  is, 
if  you  like  my  husband  and  I  like  your  wife." 
He  did  not  seem  to  recognize  his  own  words 
again. 

"  That  will  never  be  ;  you  know  that,"  he 
said,  softly.  My  heart  beat  wildly,  his  man- 
ner had  grown  tender.  I  flogged  my  soul 
with  the  remembrance  of  his  old  jibes  and 
taunts,  for  fear  lest  I  should  love  him  once 
more — should  believe  in  him  again.  "  I  won- 
der why  we  quarrelled,"  he  added,  almost  in 
a  whisper. 

"  We  didn't— " 

"Well,  we  did  something  that  drew  us 


196  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

apart.  Don't  you  think  we  were  very  fool- 
ish, Madge  ?"  The  scalding  tears  came  into 
my  eyes.  I  could  not  answer ;  but  I  gave  a 
little,  quick  nod.  He  saw  it,  and  over  his 
face  came  a  look  of  satisfaction.  I  loathed 
him  for  it,  for  I  knew  that  he  was  trying  to 
play  fast  and  loose  with  me  again.  But  it 
shall  not  be,  Nell.  It  shall  not;  it  shall 
not.  I  have  put  one  barrier  between  us  ;  I 
will  put  others. 

He  went.  But  that  night  he  wrote  me 
one  of  the  old  fascinating  letters — letters  full 
of  half-suggested  tenderness,  but  in  which 
he  said  nothing  plainly;  neither  that  he  loved 
me,  or  wanted  to  be  loved ;  only  indirectly 
reproached  me  with  being  false.  It  was  a 
L  cer  that  no  woman  could  answer  plainly. 
He  knew  it  when  he  wrote  it. 

But  I  read  it  a  dozen  times,  and  kissed  it, 
as  I  have  kissed  all  his  letters,  even  those 
that  cut  me  sorely ;  and  I  hated  and  scorned 
him  as  it  is  given  to  few  women  to  hate  and 
scorn.  Last  night  he  dined  here,  devoting 
himself  to  pretty  Mrs.  Browson,  scarcely 
looking  at  me.  I  am  only  a  woman,  so  I 
revenged  myself  by  flirting  with  Sir  Noel 
Franks.  He  (Sir  Noel)  leaves  town  to-mor- 
row for  a  fortnight.  He  asked  if  he  might 
call  here  to-day  before  he  went.  I  knew 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  197 

well  enough  what  he  meant,  and  answered 
No.  I  told  him  to  come  on  his  return. 
Nell,  I  shall  marry  him.  God  help  me  !  And 
yet  it  is  the  best  thing  that  can  happen  to 
me.  The  other  man  would  break  my  heart 
whether  I  married  him  or  remained  single. 
With  Sir  Noel  I  need  not  remember  that  I 
have  one.  He  will  make  no  demands  on  it; 
he  will  satisfy  my  ambition.  I  will  set  my- 
self a  task  that  will  only  be  finished  when 
he  is  Prime -minister  —  or  Foreign  Affairs, 
which  is  more  picturesque — with  a  policy 
that  shall  keep  the  whole  of  Europe  respect- 
ful. He  will  give  me  money,  too,  and  ease 
and  comfort.  And  all  these  will  be  some- 
thing, some  compensation ;  for  without  them 
there  are  many  ugly  bits,  even  in  the  m^st 
romantic  of  worlds.  I  don't  want  to  depend 
on  John  always.  Besides,  I  want  John  to 
marry.  If  he  does  not  find  a  wife  for  himself, 
I  shall  find  one  for  him  as  soon  as  I  have 
thrown  off  Mark's  thraldom. 

A  busy,  thinking,  diplomatic  life,  in  which 
I  have  forever  to  be  en  evidence,  up  and  do- 
ing, always  planning  this  step  and  that,  and 
withal  keeping  note  of  the  intellectual  rate 
about  me ;  finding  out  this  genius,  and  pre- 
senting him  to  the  world,  to  his  own  modest 
dismay;  or  rescuing  that  invention  from  the 


XV 

MADGE    TO    NELLIE 

March  qth. 

\  ARK  has  sent  me  a  note,  one  of 
his  own  vague,  incomprehensi- 
ble ones.  He  is  coming  to  dine 
on  Wednesday.  All  the  rest 
you  shall  know  later. 
One  thing  more  only:  James  Harrison 
and  Isabel  are  engaged.  How  glad  I  am 
for  him,  for  perhaps  he  will  be  happy  at  last ! 
She,  too,  will  be  happy,  I  think.  But  Aunt 
Maria's  tactics  are  amusing.  Poor,  despised 
James  Harrison  !  It  is  a  topsy-turvy  world, 
dear  Nell.  Come  and  stay  in  this  portion 
of  it  with  John  and  me  for  a  bit. 


XVI 

MADGE    TO   JAMES    HARRISON 

March  8,  1884. 

»EAR  COUSIN  JAMES,— That 
is  what  I  shall  call  you  in  fut- 
ure. Has  it  a  pleasant  sound  ? 
I  am  delighted,  indeed,  to 
hear  of  your  engagement  to  Is- 
abel. I  had  an  idea  of  what  might  happen, 
I  confess,  when  I  heard  that  you  were  stay- 
ing again  at  that  most  beguiling  Daffodil. 
My  best  and  truest  and  most  cordial  wishes 
for  your  happiness  now  and  always,  and  for 
hers,  too — you  must  consider  this  letter  to 
be  written  to  you  both.  Nothing  could  have 
given  me  greater  pleasure  than  your  news 
this  morning. 

I  feel  sure  that  you  are  very  lucky,  dear 
cousin,  for  you  have  had  all  sorts  of  worldly 
prosperity  already,  and  now  you  are  going 
to  have  a  dear  little  wife,  and  your  children 


XVIII 

MADGE    TO     MRS.  ROBERT    WILLIAMS 

March  2"]th. 

'EAR  AUNT  MARIA,— John 
would  write  himself,  but  he  is 
tremendously  busy  to-day.  We 
want  you  to  hear  from  ourselves 
a  bit  of  news  that  makes  us 
both,  and  one  other,  very  happy  indeed. 
John  and  Nellie  Hamilton  are  engaged. 
She  has  been  staying  with  us  for  a  week ; 
yesterday  she  left;  John  took  her  back  to 
Worcester,  and  on  his  return  told  me  that 
she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife,  and  soon. 
Nothing  in  the  world  could  be  so  good  for 
him  —  she  is  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  on 
earth,  made  for  him,  and  he  for  her.  You 
cannot  imagine  how  glad  I  am,  for  Nellie 
has  always  been  my  closest,  dearest  friend, 
and  now  she  will  be  my  sister,  too. 

I  hope  Isabel  is  enjoying  the  buying  of 
her  trousseau,  and  looks  forward  with  great 


LOVE   LETTERS   OF   A  WORLDLY  WOMAN    2OI 

joy  to  her  wedding.  We  shall  be  delighted 
to  come  to  it.  We  sent  yesterday  a  case  of 
Italian  glass,  which  we  lay  at  the  feet  of  the 
bride  and  bridegroom.  Isabel  will  find  a 
note  inside. 

Yours  affectionately, 

MADGE  BROOKE. 


XIX 

TO     NELLIE 


Ap)il 

>T  has  been  great  joy  to  tell  every 
one  of  your  engagement  to  John, 
dear  Nell;  it  is  greater  joy  still 
to  see  how  happy  he  is.  Only  I 
wish  you  would  not  wait  till 
September. 

No,  dear,  of  course  not  —  I  should  not 
think  of  feeling  driven  from  home  because 
you  are  coming  here.  I  know  well  —  it  did 
not  need  words  to  tell  me  —  how  welcome  I 
should  be  to  you  both.  But  life  must  and 
shall  take  some  new  shape.  Now  I  cannot 
trust  myself  from  day  to  day  ;  this  infatua- 
tion of  love  or  hate  must  end.  Mark  is 
playing  the  old  game  with  me  —  sheltering 
himself  behind  vague  phrases,  seeming  to  be 
one  thing,  while  all  the  time  something  tells 
me  that  he  is  another,  and  he  says  no  word 
by  which  one  can  make  sure.  He  has  either 


LOVE  LETTERS   OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN    203 

been  or  written  pretty  often  lately.  If  he 
comes,  he  puts  on  an  air  of  disapproval ;  if 
he  writes,  there  is  a  strain  of  half  tenderness, 
half  cynicism  in  his  letters,  as  though  I  had 
treated  him  badly,  almost  as  if  he  liked  me, 
yet  did  not  trust  me.  What  does  it  mean  ? 
He  calls  me  a  woman  of  the  world,  and 
sneers  at  all  I  do,  and  listens  to  all  I  say 
with  an  expression  that  maddens  me.  He 
makes  me  feel  like  a  culprit ;  yet  what  have 
I  done  ?  It  must  and  shall  end ;  that  is  what 
I  say  to  myself  a  hundred  times  a  day. 
Nothing  can  set  things  right  between  us ; 
yet  every  time  I  see  his  face  and  touch  his 
hand  I  know  that  he  could  make  me  suffer 
again.  MADGE. 


XX 


TO     NELLIE 

A piil  i8M. 

'T  is  all  over.  We,  the  little  group 
that  knew  each  other  so  well  in 
by-gone  days,  are  all  thinking  of 
marrying  or  being  given  in 
marriage. 

This  afternoon  I  accepted  Sir  Noel ;  we 
afe  to  be  married  soon,  before  the  summer 
is  over,  so  that  we  may  go  away  (we  shall 
not  want  much  honeymoon)  and  come  back 
and  finish  out  the  season  together. 

Mrs.  Berry  called  to-day,  just  after  lunch- 
eon. She  talked  a  great  deal  about  Mark 
— how  he  had  taken  her  to  task  for  various 
things.  Why  ?  Her  husband  was  dead,  and 
he  thought  that  when  that  was  so  a  woman 
ought  to  be  set  down  by  her  nearest  male 
relation ;  he  was  the  nearest  one  she  had, 
so  he  did  it.  Soon  her  sons  would  be  grown 
up,  then  no  doubt  they  would  take  it  upon 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN    205 

themselves  to  direct  her.  It  never  seems 
to  occur  to  her  that  a  woman  can  steer  her 
own  course;  she  falls  in  quite  naturally  with 
Mark's  idea  of  the  inferiority  of  her  sex. 

"  Still,  one  doesn't  want  to  be  dictated'  to 
about  every  little  thing,"  she  said,  uand 
that  is  what  he  would  like  to  do ;  and  then 
he  never  judges  one  generously.  He  always 
seems  to  think  one's  motives  are  so  mean,  or 
so  different,  at  any  rate,  from  what  they  really 
are ;  I  shall  pity  the  woman  he  marries  with 
all  my  heart.  He  is  making  love  to  little 
Kate  Seeley  now,"  she  added.  What  a 
fool  I  am,  Nell,  for  my  heart  stood  still ! 

"  Who  is  she  ?"  I  asked. 

"  She  is  the  daughter  of  an  old  school- 
fellow of  mine.  He  met  her  at  my  house 
and  made  himself  very  agreeable— he  can, 
you  know — and  Mrs.  Seeley  invited  him,  and 
he  went ;  but  I  don't  believe  that  it  will 
really  come  to  anything." 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  and  she  thinks  a  good  deal  of 
herself ;  but  she  is  twenty  and  fresh ;  that  is 
what  he  likes."  It  set  my  teeth  on  edge. 
Yes,  that  is  what  he  likes.  Probably  he 
comes  here  to  strengthen  his  dislikings,  and 
goes  to  her  to  strengthen  his  likings.  Oh, 
Nellie,  how  I  loathe  him !  and  yet  it  is  only 


206  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

yesterday  that  I  covered  the  hands  he  had 
shaken  as  he  said  good-bye,  with  kisses,  and 
listened  to  his  footsteps  going  down  the 
stairs,  as  though  they  were  the  sweetest 
music  in  the  world  to  me,  and  —  Heaven 
help  me — they  were.  Those  dear  footsteps 
— my  heart  will  awake  and  beat,  I  think,  if 
some  day  they  pass  over  the  place  where  I 
lie  buried. 

"  Where  does  Miss  Seeley  live  ?"  I  asked 
Mrs.  Berry. 

"At  Richmond.  Probably  he  only  makes 
her  an  excuse  to  go  down  to  the  park  of  an 
afternoon." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  about  her  " 

"  No,  her  mother  told  me  about  him.  I 
dare  say  she  would  like  to  marry  him,  but  I 
don't  suppose  he  means  to  marry  her.  He 
always  liked  flirting  with  a  girl,  you  know — 
he  never  means  anything." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  I  said.  "  He  never 
means  anything." 

"  He  likes  to  amuse  himself ;  but  he  nev- 
er seems  to  think  much  of  any  one.  -I  don't 
believe  he  will  ever  care  for  any  one." 

I  was  glad  she  told  me  that ;  it  hardened 
me,  and  made  me  shudder  to  remember  how 
he  had  made  love  to  me  in  by-gone  days. 
What  a  degradation  it  was  ! 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  2O7 

Sir  Noel  came  an  hour  after  she  had  gone. 
I  welcomed  him  with  thankfulness ;  I  could 
have  put  out  my  hands  to  him  like  a  drown- 
ing woman.  A  single  glance  at  his  face 
showed  me  why  he  had  come.  His  manner 
was  perfect ;  it  is  always  excessively  courte- 
ous and  considerate  towards  women,  and  it 
has,  besides,  a  simple  straightforwardness 
that  makes  one  breathe  freely.  He  looks 
good,  too — I  felt  that  as  I  looked  up  at  his 
face.  The  sight  of  him,  with  all  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  that  were  upon  me,  was  like  a 
rush  of  cool  air  after  a  stifling  madness  of 
years. 

"  Miss  Brooke,"  he  said,  when  we  had  got 
through  our  greetings,  "  I  have  not  come  to 
pay  you  an  ordinary  visit ;  but  one  on  a 
matter  of  the  greatest  importance — that  is, 
to  me."  He  spoke  with  extreme  deference 
— all  through  the  interview  he  treated  me 
with  more  and  more  deference,  as  he  became 
more  and  more  convinced  that  his  suit  would 
prosper.  "  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  of 
how  to  put  into  words  what  I  wish  to  say  to 
you — into  the  words  most  Lkely  to  gain  your 
sympathy  and — assent;  but  I  am  afraid  my 
diplomatic  experiences  have  mostly  been 
with  my  own  sex,  and  I  may  spoil  my  own 
cause  by — " 


208  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  I  looked  at 
him  critically ;  tall  and  thin,  almost  soldier- 
ly in  his  bearing,  his  voice  a  little  low  and 
excessively  refined  in  its  tone.  There  was 
restfulness  in  the  thought  of  giving  my  weary 
life  over  to  him,  yet  I  thought  of  Mark's 
grave,  almost  cynical  face— oh,  my  love,  and 
dream,  and  torturer,  whom  I  am  forever 
driving  out  of  my  life,  what  fiend  is  it,  I 
wonder,  that  lodges  in  your  soul  and  makes 
you  so  different  from  what  surely  God  meant 
you  to  be?  If  only  I  might  respect  you, 
might  think  of  you  as  even  the  vaguest 
ideal,  though  I  never  saw  you  again  in  this 
wide  world,  I  could  be  thankful  and  satis- 
fied. It  is  the  scorn  that  kills  me. 

But  there  stood  Sir  Noel,  for  he  had  risen 
before  me,  and  there  stood  I,  leaning  against 
the  mantel-piece,  looking  idly  at  the  china  on 
it ;  and  he  had  to  be  answered. 

"Diplomacy  is  an  art  that  men  usually 
try  to  keep  apart  from  women,"  I  said. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  answered,  gravely, 
"  and  I  will  put  what  I  have  to  say  into  the 
simplest  words  I  know.  Miss  Brooke,  will 
you  do  me  the  honor  to  become  my  wife  ?" 
His  voice  was  coldly  eager,  there  was  anx- 
iety on  his  face,  greater  courtesy  than  ever 
in  the  very  attitude  of  his  head  ;  but  of  sen- 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  2Op 

timent,  of  passion,  not  a  sign.  How  good  it 
was  to  see  it !  I  felt  as  if  all  the  love  I  had 
given  in  past  years — nay,  all  the  love  that 
had  been  given  me,  too — was  being  laid  in  its 
grave,  and  that  these  precise  words  were  the 
will-o'-the-wisp  that  danced  over  it.  I  could 
almost  hear  some  ghostly  music,  and  fancy 
that  it  came  from  a  distant  empty  church,  that 
dead  fingers  touched  the  keys  and  brought 
it  forth.  But  outwardly  my  manner  was  cold 
and  self-possessed,  as  courteous,  too,  as  his 
own  ;  we  were  a  truly  well-mannered  couple 
as  we  stood  and  arranged  our  marriage. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  marry  me  ?"  I  asked, 
curiously. 

"  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  and  re- 
spect for  you.  I  should  be  most  proud 
and — "  I  do  not  know  how  he  went  on ; 
all  the  time  I  was  looking  coldly  on  at  the 
funeral  of  my  life's  romance ;  unknown  to 
himself,  this  middle-aged  diplomat  with  the 
thin  face  and  iron-gray  hair  was  conducting 
its  funeral  service.  Suddenly  I  remembered 
the  torment  I  had  suffered  once  before  when  I 
had  not  dared  to  tell  Austin  Brian  of  the  past. 

"  I  have  a  regard  for  you,  Sir  Noel,"  I 
said,  and  heard  with  surprise  my  own  voice 
falter,  but  I  could  not  steady  it ;  "  and  I  am 
an  ambitious  woman." 


210  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

"Ah  !"  he  gasped,  faintly. 

"  I  could  only  be  satisfied  with  a  man 
who  was  ambitious,  too  —  whose  career  I 
might  perhaps  help,  as  well  as  share." 

"  It  is  what  I  desire,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  as  though  he  were  making  a  response 
in  church.  His  voice  will  sound  like  that, 
perhaps,  when  we  are  being  married. 

"But  I  want  you  to  know,"  I  went  on, 
timidly,  "  that  though  I  like  you,  I  am  not  in 
love."  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  foolish  word 
the  moment  it  was  spoken — it  seemed  so 
foreign  to  the  matter  with  which  we  were 
concerning  ourselves. 

"  I  am  too  old  to  ask  for  that,"  he  said, 
with  a  little  sigh.  He  is  only  fifty,  Nellie ; 
men  are  loved  at  that  age,  nay,  long  past  it 
— at  any  age ;  it  is  a  question  of  the  man 
himself,  not  of  his  years ;  but  I  thought  of 
the  story  Lady  Mary  had  told  me  and  un- 
derstood. "  I  do  not  even  offer  it  to  you," 
he  went  on,  simply,  "  only  my  regard,  my 
admiration,  to  make  you  my  first  and  great- 
est consideration  in  life  —  more  is  beyond 
me ;  it  is  too  late."  There  was  a  world  of 
by-gones  in  his  voice ;  I  knew  that  he  was 
remembering,  and  was  touched,  more  than  I 
should  have  been  had  he  professed  to  care 
for  me,  perhaps.  Then  I  let  go  myself,  and 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  211 

was  given  over  to  the  fates  that  make  one 
say  and  do  what  they  will  as  they  weave 
one's  history. 

"  But  I  want  you  to  know  " — I  heard  my- 
self saying  with  a  strange  manner  that  was 
not  mine — "  to  know  that  in  the  past  there 
were  days  when — when — "  I  rested  my 
head  down  on  the  edge  of  the  shelf,  and 
Could  not  go  on.  He  put  his  hand  on  mine. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  gently,  almost 
sadly,  "I  am  asking  you  to  give  me  your 
future,  to  share  mine.  Our  pasts  are  our 
own.  I  cannot  unbury  mine  ;  I  do  not  ask 
to  know  yours,"  and  he  was  silent. 

I  looked  round  the  room;  it  wore  a  strange 
air,  as  though  it  understood.  Do  you  know 
the  suggestion  of  still  life,  of  listening  that 
mere  chairs  and  tables  sometimes  seem  to 
have  ?  I  glanced  swiftly  at  all  the  familiar 
things.  Yes,  this  was  the  end  of  the  story. 
Never  through  all  the  years  should  I  know 
— should  I  hear — oh,  Nellie,  to  have  saun- 
tered through  the  woods  with  Mark  just 
once  more,  though  it  had  cost  me  all  the  old 
sorrow  and  bitterness  over  again — nay,  twice 
again  !  I  would  have  consented  to  bear  it 
gladly  at  that  moment  when  I  was  put- 
ting all  the  possibilities  forever  away  from 
me.  Then  I  looked  up  at  Sir  Noel  and 


212  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

put  out  my  hand.  He  took  it  almost  rever- 
ently. 

"  Am  I  to  understand — "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  and  he  took  the  other  hand, 
too,  and  bending  down  kissed  them  both, 
and  that  was  all. 

I  sat  by  the  fire  for  two  hours  after  he 
had  gone,  thinking  it  all  over.  The  end  had 
come,  and  for  one  last  hour  I  would  love 
Mark  again,  and  then  forever  let  him  go. 
Yes,  love  him,  though  I  loathed  him  too, 
and  knew  him  to  be  a  coward,  as  men  are 
sometimes  with  a  cowardice  they  only  make 
known  to  women.  John  said  the  other  day 
with  a  reluctance  that  showed  it  was  forced 
from  him,  "  I  think  Mark  is  rather  a  cad, 
you  know."  I  said  nothing,  for  it  was 
true;  yet,  oh,  the  hardness  of  tearing  his 
fingers  from  about  my  heart !  I  shall  have 
money  with  Sir  Noel — heaps  of  it — position, 
comfort,  and  ease  all  my  life  long.  I  shall 
be  a  personage  more  and  more,  for  he  is  a 
man  who  will  never  be  satisfied  if  he  does 
not  surely  and  steadily  press  forward.  But, 
oh,  to  have  been  and  had  none  of  these 
things  and  to  have  married  Mark.  He  lives 
in  lodgings,  pays  his  landlady  two  or  three 
pounds  a  week,  perhaps,  and  grumbles  at 
her  cooking;  yet  to  have  shared  that  life 


A   WORLDLY  WOMAN  213 

with  him  instead  of  the  one  to  which  I  am 
giving  myself — no,  not  myself,  but  some  one 
who  has  taken  its  place.  Or  if  he  had  been 
poorest  poor,  a  laborer  on  the  estate  of  the 
man  I  am  going  to  marry,  and  we  had  lived 
in  one  of  the  little  cottages,  I  could  have 
been  the  happiest,  most  blessed  woman 
alive.  To  have  cooked  his  food  and  washed 
his  clothes,  have  waited  on  him,  watched  for 
him,  obeyed  him.  I  would  not  have  com- 
plained though  he  had  been  cruel,  though 
he  had  sworn  at  me  and  cuffed  me.  I  would 
have  wept  in  secret  and  waited  for  that  dear 
moment  when  he  forgave  me,  and  I  might 
hear  him  say  he  loved  me  again  and  feel 
that  it  was  heaven.  But  there — there — it 
is  all  finished,  let  it  be. 

I  do  not  know  how  late  it  was  when  Janet 
came  in. 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Sir  Noel,"  I  told 
her. 

"  Thank  God,"  she  said,  "  for  he  looks  like 
a  true  man  and  honest  gentleman  ;"  and  she 
came  and  kissed  me  and  smoothed  my  hair, 
and  I  wished  that  she  were  smoothing  it  for 
my  coffin.  Yet  I  am  content,  and  would 
have  nothing  different  from  what  it  is. 

Good -night,  dear  Nell,  I  am  very  tired. 
Perhaps  I  may  sleep.  MADGE. 


XXI 

TO   NELLIE 

April  2$d. 

,EFORE  I  go  to  sleep  I  must  tell 
you  about  this  day,  dear  Nell. 
It  finishes  all.  First,  know  that 
things  are  to  be  hurried  on  ;  we 
are  to  be  married — Noel  and  I 
—  on  June  ist.  It  is  to  be  as  smart  a 
function  as  we  can  make  it  •  but  of  course 
John  has  told  you,  and  you  must  come  up 
as  soon  as  you  can  and  help  me.  Now  for 
the  rest. 

The  morning  after  I  wrote  last  my  en- 
gagement was  announced  in  the  Post.  It 
brought  quantities  of  letters,  of  course  — 
among  them  one  from  Mark. 

'My  heart  sank  when  I  saw  his  letter ;  I 
would  not  open  it,  I  decided ;  after  all,  it 
was  an  example  that  he  had  set  me.  So 
swiftly  I  put  it  into  the  fire  and  watched  it 
burn,  and  felt  my  heart  lighten  as  it  turned 
to  tinder. 


LOVE   LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN     215 

Two  days  went  by.  Another  letter.  Dog- 
gedly I  put  it  into  the  fire  again  and  held  it 
down.  To-day  he  himself  came.  It  is  always 
the  same  ;  my  heart  beat  quickly  as  he  en- 
tered ;  my  voice  was  no  longer  under  my 
control.  Shall  I  ever  get  rid  of  this  mad- 
ness ? 

"Why  didn't  you  answer  my  letters?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  burned  them,  I  am  tired  of  congratu- 
lations," I  said. 

"I  didn't  send  any,"  he  answered,  and 
looked  at  me  in  the  old  tormenting  manner. 
"  I  told  you  the  other  day  that  you  were  in- 
constant," he  went  on ;  "  now,  you  see,  I  was 
right." 

I  turned  and  faced  him. 

"  To  whom  have  I  been  inconstant  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  You  had  better  answer  that  question 
yourself." 

His  fencing  made  me  ache  with  scorn. 

"  Have  I  been  inconstant  to  you  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  should  say  so." 

That  was  enough ;  I  feared  he  might  go, 
so  I  stood  up  and  spoke  quickly. 

"It  is  false,"  I  said.  "Let  us  speak 
plainly,  while  the  chance  is  with  us,  and  this 
last  time  that  I  hope  we  may  ever  speak  at 


2l6  LOVE  LETTERS   OF 

all.  I  was  never  bound  to  you — never ;  you 
never  said  a  word  to  me — never  one  that 
bound  you  to  me  or  me  to  you." 

"Words  !"  he  said,  cynically. 

"Yes  —  words.  All  the  bonds  that  the 
world  recognizes  are  made  of  words.  Long 
ago,  when  I  was  a  girl,  you  made  love  to 
me ;  you  kissed  me  that  night  at  Poona." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  satisfaction  that 
was  gall  to  me  and  yet  spurred  me  to  go  on, 
"I  did." 

"I  thought  you  loved  me  then,  and  on 
board  ship,  and  afterwards  in  London.  Do 
you  remember  when  we  went  to  the  studio 
that  first  day  of  all—" 

"  Perfectly,"  he  said,  calmly. 

"You  made  love  to  me  then,  and  wrung 
admissions  from  me,  though  you  made  none 
yourself;  you  took  care  to  make  none.  You 
were  always  cautious ;  I  have  seen  that  in 
looking  back;  but  I  remember  how  you 
tortured  me,  saying  I  did  not  care  for  you, 
till  I  cried  at  last,  'I  do,  I  do,  dreadfully !' 
I  wish  my  tongue  had  been  burned  before  it 
said  the  words." 

"  They  were  not  true,  I  suppose  ?"  he 
asked,  politely,  with  a  shade  of  curiosity  in 
his  voice. 

"  They  were,  indeed ;   for  I  did  love  you 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  2i; 

all  those  days,  and  months  and  months  be- 
fore, and  long,  long  afterwards,  till  —  oh,  I 
don't  know  till  when.  And  all  that  summer 
on  the  river,  when  we  were  together  every 
day,  and  you  treated  me  as  if  we  were  never 
to  be  apart  again,  and  spoke  of  the  future 
as  if  we  were  going  to  spend  it  together — " 

"  Precisely,"  he  remarked. 

"  Of  course  I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart 
and  soul,  with  all  my  life.  I  should  have 
been  like  one  of  those  poor  women  we  are 
not  allowed  to  speak  to  openly  if  I  could 
be  all  that  I  was  to  you  and  not  care.  Did 
you  think  me  bad  and  fast  and  wicked,  since 
you  could  treat  me  so  ?  I  have  often  won- 
dered—" 

"  No,  I  did  not,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Men  don't  make  love  to  girls  they  have 
known  all  their  lives,  as  you  had  known  me, 
as  you  made  love  to  me  ;  they  don't  treat 
them  as  you  did  me,  unless  they  love  them 
and  want  to  marry  them." 

"  Perhaps  I  did,"  he  said,  calmly. 

"  Or  unless  they  think  them  what  I  have 
said.  Did  you  think  me  that  ?  For  I  was 
not,  Mark ;  I  was  too  innocent  then  to  know 
right  from  wrong,  and  trusted  you  wholly. 
When  the  summer  was  over  you  grew  cool ; 
you  were  tired  of  me ;  you  had  had  enough — " 


2Io  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

"Perhaps," he  said. 

"You  talked  of  my  marrying  some  day; 
you  hoped  I  should  be  married  to  some  one 
who  would  be  as  fond  and  proud  of  me  as 
he  ought  to  be ;  you  talked  of  your  future 
travels,  and  of  our  lives  as  separate  ways. 
It  nearly  broke  my  heart :  the  shame,  the 
sorrow  of  it,  and  the  misery  that  was  mine." 

"  Well  ?"  he  said,  in  an  interested  voice, 
waiting  for  me  to  go  on. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  once  about  the  picture 
we  were  to  paint  together ;  you  replied  that 
we  would  do  it  further  on  in  life,  when  we 
were  both  married,  if  I  liked  your  wife  and 
you  liked  my  husband." 

"  It  would  hardly  have  come  off  other- 
wise, "he  said. 

"  You  left  me  ;  you  were  cold  and  distant ; 
you  gave  me  to  understand  that  together  our 
lives  had  finished.  When  you  came  to  Lon- 
don, after  months  of  absence,  you  did  not 
even  come  near  me.  Then  one  night,  in 
sheer  despair  and  misery — how,  God  knows 
— I  got  engaged  to  Austin  Brian.  I  wrote 
and  told  you,  and  could  say  by  heart  every 
word  of  the  letter  you  sent  back ;  you  ad- 
vised me  to  keep  to  the  engagement,  though 
I  had  told  you  how  it  fretted  me.  You 
were  sorry  when  it  was  broken  off,  and  all 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  2Ip 

the  time  you  never  made  a  sign  by  which  I 
could  suppose  that  you  cared.  Long  after- 
wards you  met  me  and  taunted  me  with 
having  been  false  to  you,  but  in  roundabout 
ways,  so  that  I  could  not  speak  out.  Now 
you  have  come  back,  you  have  been  about 
the  'house,  you  have  called  me  inconstant 
and  so  on  ;  but  you  have  made  no  sign  of 
caring  for  me,  and  now  again  you  come  and 
taunt  me.  Oh,  it  is  too  much  !  It  was  only 
the  other  day,  too,  that  I  heard  you  were 
making  love  to  some  one  else — some  one  at 
Richmond." 

"  She  is  very  pretty,"  he  remarked,  calmly. 

"  Go  to  her,  and  leave  me  to  my  life.  I 
loved  you  in  by-gone  days — God  knows  I 
did,  Mark.  I  was  not  a  wicked  woman ;  I 
only  gave  my  life  and  heart  and  soul  to  the 
man  who  was  all  the  world  to  me,  for  you 
have  been  that ;  I  would  have  died  for  you 
in  days  gone  by,  and  I  should  be  ashamed, 
indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  so.  It  is  my  justi- 
fication. I  don't  hate  you  now,  but  in  my 
heart  I  have  a  scorn  for  you  that  is  bound- 
less— a  scorn  that  shakes  me." 

He  hardly  seemed  to  hear  me. 

"  I  really  was  fond  of  you  in  the  studio 
days,"  he  said,  reflectively ;  "and  afterwards 
by  the  river,  too  ;  but  I  grew  tired  of  that  be- 


220  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

fore  the  summer  was  over.  I  was  bored. 
I  remember  seeing  a  girl  once  with  very 
bright  eyes ;  she  was  landing  just  as  we  put 
off,  and  I  thought  how  much  an  hour  or  two 
with  her  would  pick  me  up,  and  then  the 
winter  after  that  you  did  not  look  well — you 
went  off  rather ;  you  were  getting  older,  I 
suppose." 

"  Oh,  Mark,  was  it  just  my  youth  and 
bloom  that  took  your  fancy?  You  never 
had  any  real  love  for  me — never  any  in  the 
world  ?" 

"  Of  course  one  likes  a  pretty  girl,"  he  an- 
swered. "And,  then,  I  am  not  sentimental; 
love  is  not  in  my  way,  and  marrying  isn't." 

"  But  your  idea  was  that  I  should  keep 
true  to  you,  while  you  should  in  no  way  be 
bound — in  no  way  be  true— to  me." 

"  Precisely;  that  is  what  I  meant,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile.  Then  he  went  on,  reflectively : 
"  But  I  certainly  liked  you  better  than  any 
woman  I  had  ever  seen  at  one  time,  and 
perhaps  I  do  now — I  don't  know  or  wish  to 
know.  Still,  since  I  have  returned,  I  must 
frankly  own  that  I  have  found  you  thor- 
oughly disagreeable,  and  really  I  don't  see 
the  least  use  in  our  going  on." 

"  Going  on  with  what  ?" 

"Well,  with—with  nothing." 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  221 

"  If  you  did  care  for  me  in  by-gone  days, 
why  didn't  you  say  so  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  didn't  want  to  be  answered." 

"  Or  raise  a  finger  to  prevent  my  marrying 
or  getting  engaged  ?" 

"  I  did  not  care  to." 

"Then  why  have  you  taunted  me  with 
being  false  to  you,  and  what  have  you  to  do 
with  my  future,  or  I  with  yours  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  again,  with  the  calm- 
ness and  the  smile  that  maddened  me  ;  "you 
are  taking  an  old  gentleman  with  an  iron- 
gray  mustache  to  yourself.  He  will  have 
to  do  with  your  future,  I  suppose." 

"  While  you  make  love  to  the  young  lady 
at  Richmond." 

"Probably;  till  I  grow  tired  of  her.  Then 
I  must  find  some  one  else  who  is  pretty." 

I  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"Mark,"  I  said,  desperately,  "go  away; 
please  go  away.  I  cannot  bear  it  any  lon- 
ger." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  he  answered,  with  a  look 
of  almost  amusement.  "  It  is  not  very  po- 
lite to  treat  an  old  friend  so ;  but  perhaps 
you  are  expecting — your  new  friend— 

"  Yes,  perhaps,"  I  said,  entreatingly ;  "  only 
go.  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer." 

"  Well,  good-bye  ;  your  manners  are  very 


222    LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

bad,  that  I  must  say.  I  hope  they  will  im- 
prove when  you  are  married."  He  shook 
hands.  I  listened  again,  that  last,  last  time 
as  he  went  down  the  stairs — for  he  shall 
never  come  up  them  more — but  I  listened 
now  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  of  thankfulness. 
I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  and  a 
strange  peace,  an  almost  joy,  stole  into  my 
heart.  Dear  God,  how  good  you  have  been 
to  me !  If  I  had  married  him  I  should  have 
died  of  loathing  and  of  scorn.  It  is  all  over, 
dear  Nell.  This  is  the  end  of  the  story. 

24th. 

I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that  you  and  John 
are  to  be  married  a  month  sooner.  You 
will  enjoy  Switzerland. 

No,  dear ;  Noel  and  I  are  going  to  Paris 
after  our  wedding  on  the  ist  of  June.  Some 
one  offered  us  a  country-seat  to  honeymoon 
in,  but  we  declined.  The  country  is  for  lov- 
ers, not  for  him  and  me  ;  we  want  a  gay  city 
like  Paris,  with  plays  to  go  to  and  dinners 
to  eat.  We  shall  be  excellent  companions. 
I  look  forward  to  it — I  am  almost  merry. 
Oh,  Nellie,  I  am  going  to  be  content ! 


XXII 

MADGE     TO     NELL 

(AFTER  FOUR  YEARS) 

Sept.  17,  1888. 

•EAREST  NELL,— We  were  so 
sorry  not  to  see  you  with  John. 
We  will  take  excellent  care  of 
him,  and  send  him  back  on 
Tuesday  with  as  many  birds  as 
he  will  carry.  I  long  to  see  you,  dear.  We 
do  not  go  to  town  till  the  session  begins, 
but  you  and  I  will  have  a  pleasant  winter, 
and  be  much  together.  Kiss  the  baby,  and 
tell  little  May  that  I  think  of  her. 

There  is  something  I  have  often  wanted 
to  ask  you  ;  I  will  do  so  now.  It  is,  did  you 
destroy  all  those  foolish  letters  I  wrote  you 
years  ago  about  Mark  Cuthbertson  ?  I  hope 
you  did;  tell  me  when  you  write.  What  a 
mad  infatuation  it  was !  Sometimes  I  look 
back  on  it  with  horror.  It  was  like  a  mad- 
ness. How  thankful  I  am  that  it  ended  at 


224  LOVE   LETTERS   OF 

last !  It  might  easily  have  broken  my  heart, 
or  made  me  a  bad  and  desperate  woman  ; 
but  it  did  neither.  It  only  made  me  into 
somebody  else,  or  into  another  self,  who 
remembers  the  old  one  with  wonder,  and 
shrinks  now  and  then  even  yet  from  the 
memory  of  the  pain  she  suffered,  so  keen 
it  was  and  terrible. 

I  told  you  the  history  of  it  all  with  so 
many  details  that  you  ought  to  know  the 
climax.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  men- 
tion it  on  my  wedding-day,  and  I  have  never 
really  had  a  chance  since — you  and  John 
have  been  such  gad-abouts  since  your  mar- 
riage. It  is  an  absurd  climax — I  have 
laughed  at  it  since,  but  I  thought  it  very 
tragic  at  the  time.  Three  or  four  days  be- 
fore my  marriage  Mark  sent  me  a  wedding 
present.  It  was  a  little  ebony  clock  like 
that  which  used  to  strike  the  hours  in  the 
studio,  while  the  twilight  stole  in  and  we  sat 
on  the  bamboo  chairs  watching  the  crack- 
ling wood-fire.  The  sight  of  it  stupefied  me, 
and  made  me  shudder ;  it  thrilled  me  with  a 
something  that  was  almost  fright.  I  thought 
at  first  that  I  would  send  it  back,  but  I  could 
not :  to  keep  it  was  impossible.  I  walked 
up  and  down  looking  at  it  half  scared.  What 
follows  is  like  a  farce. 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  22$ 

I  wrapped  it  up  again  and  went  to  the 
place  where  we  had  spent  that  happy  sum- 
mer. I  walked  from  the  train  towards  the 
river,  past  the  empty  cottage  where  Janet 
and  I  had  stayed.  I  stopped  at  the  Swan, 
and  saying  that  I  wanted  to  dig  up  a  root, 
borrowed  a  trowel.  Then  I  took  a  boat  and 
rowed  to  the  island  where  we  had  often  gone 
in  by-gone  days.  I  made  the  boat  fast,  land- 
ed, threaded  my  way  through  the  underwood 
to  the  oak-tree  beneath  which  we  had  spent 
so  many  hours.  I  dug  a  hole,  deep — deep, 
it  was  the  hardest  work  my  hands  ever  did, 
and  then  I  buried  Mark's  present.  I  cov- 
ered it  tightly  down  and  turfed  the  ground 
over  again.  It  is  there  now,  I  suppose — I 
wonder  how  it  looks.  Before  I  put  it  into 
its  grave  I  wound  it  up.  I  heard  it  strike 
as  I  filled  up  the  hole  with  earth,  and  the 
muffled  sound  frightened  me.  Now  and 
then  I  think  of  it  buried  in  the  ground  un- 
der the  oak-tree  on  the  silent  island ;  and  I 
get  a  fantastic  notion  that  one  day,  perhaps, 
the  world  as  it  goes  round  and  round  may 
somehow  turn  the  wheels  of  the  poor  little 
clock  and  set  it  going  again,  and  when 
that  is  so,  I  may  love  Mark  once  more, 
and  he  will  love  me  back  again  :  but  never 
till  then.  I  only  think  of  the  clock,  never 
15 


226  LOVE    LETTERS    OF 

of  him,  and,  thank  God,  Nell,  I  am  con- 
tent. 

Yes,  you  are  right,  I  am  proud  of  Noel. 
We  keep  our  compact ;  love  and  sentiment 
are  ghosts  to  us  both,  and  we  have  nothing 
in  common  with  ghosts ;  but  we  are  excellent 
friends  and  good  companions.  I  like  my 
big  London  house  and  the  amusing  mixed 
parties  it  is  the  fashion  to  give.  I  think 
sometimes  of  the  dim  crowd  on  the  pave- 
ment outside,  and  wish  I  could  bring  that 
in,  too.  I  like  our  little  dinners  to  Tories 
past  their  prime,  or  to  Radicals  who  are 
coming  on,  or  the  big  ones  which  are  care- 
fully arranged  so  as  to  contain  many  ele- 
ments. We  went  to  the  New  Club  one  night 
last  season — did  I  tell  you  ? — but  in  spite 
of  the  people  we  met  and  knew,  all  trying 
to  look  rowdy,  we  could  not  stand  it,  and 
came  away.  Yes,  I  am  satisfied  ;  more  and 
more  ambitious  for  Noel ;  proud  of  my  salon 
and  the  men  on  both  sides  of  the  way  who 
come  to  it ;  gradually  it  will  grow  to  be  a 
power. 

A  child  ?  Children  are  very  well  for 
lovers  like  you  and  John.  For  Noel  and 
me — well,  he  has  a  nephew,  a  tall,  thin  boy, 
who  is  now  at  Eton.  He  will  be  made 
much  of  later.  And  there  is  your  little 


A   WORLDLY   WOMAN  227 

May ;  some  day,  perhaps,  I  may  be  her 
chaperon  if  you  will  let  me,  and  I  will  keep 
all  but  eligible  men  far  away  from  her.  What 
else  ?  Oh,  dear  Nell,  there  is  nothing  else  ; 
but  I  am  satisfied. 


ON  THE  WANE:  A  SENTIMENTAL 
CORRESPONDENCE 


HE 


ST.  JAMES'S  STREET,  W., 
Monday,  June  2$d. 

,Y  DEAR  AND  PRECIOUS 
ONE, — This  is  only  a  line  to 
tell  you  that  I  shall  come  and 
dine  with  you  and  your  mummy 
this  evening,  at  the  usual  time. 
I  have  been  thinking,  my  sweet,  that  we  had 
much  better  be  married  soon.  What  is  the 
good  of  waiting — beyond  the  winter  anyway  ? 
We  must  make  arrangements  for  the  mum- 
my, or  why  could  she  not  come  to  us  ?  I 
shall  talk  to  you  seriously  about  it  to-night, 
so  be  prepared.  I  feel  as  if  we  can't  go  on 


230  ON  THE  WANE: 

living  at  different  ends  of  London  much 
longer ;  besides,  what  is  the  good  of  waiting  ? 
No  more  time,  dear,  for  I  must  post  this 
at  once.  You  had  my  long  letter  this  morn- 
ing. Yours  was  just  like  you.  I  think  you 
are  the  greatest  darling  on  earth,  Gwen — 
I  have  taken  it  very  badly,  you  see — and  I 
have  got  something  for  you  when  I  come 
that  I  think  you  will  like.  Till  then  be  good 
and  love  me.  Meet  me  down  the  lane  if 
you  can,  like  an  angel  —  no,  like  yourself, 
which  will  be  better. 

Your  devoted  JIM. 


II 

HE 


Ttiesday  ATight,June 
You  were  so  very  sweet  last  night,  be- 
loved ;  I  do  nothing  but  think  of  you.  I  do 
trust  you,  darling,  absolutely;  and  if  we  must 
wait  till  Christmas,  why,  we  must.  But  you 
will  come  to  me  then,  won't  you  ?  and  we 
will  be  the  two  happiest  people  on  earth.  I 
can't  rest  till  I  have  seen  you  again.  I  have 
been  thinking  that  if  you  met  me  to-morrow 


A  SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      231 

at  four  at  the  Finchley  Road  Station  we 
could  have  a  long  walk,  and  drive  back  in  a 
hansom  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  in  time 
for  dinner.  Shall  we  ?  If  so,  come  in  your 
big  hat  and  the  white  dress,  for  that  is  how 
you  look  prettiest,  you  gypsy. 

Your  devoted  JIM. 


Ill 

SHE 

HAMPSTEAD, 

Wednesday  Morning,  June  2$th. 

ONLY  to  say  of  course  I  will,  darling.  I 
will  do  anything  you  like.  You  looked  so 
handsome  last  night  that  I  was  "shocking" 
proud  of  you,  as  you  would  say.  Mother 
says  the  sound  of  you  in  the  house  makes 
the  whole  place  joyful.  It  does.  I  shall 
love  a  long  walk — dear  you,  to  think  of  it. 
I'll  be  there  in  the  big  hat  and  the  white 
dress, according  to  the  orders  of  His  Majesty 
the  King.  His  very  loving 

GWEN. 


232  ON  THE  WANE: 


IV 

HE 

(A  MONTH  LATER) 

Wednesday,  July 

DEAREST  CHILD, — Sorry  I  could  not  come 
yesterday  afternoon ;  it's  an  awful  pull  up 
that  hill,  and  the  day  was  so  blazing  hot 
that  I  confess  I  shirked  it.  You  understand, 
don't  you,  darling  ?  I'll  come  and  dine  on 
Friday  anyway.  My  mother  says  you  must 
go  and  stay  with  her  this  autumn.  She  is 
enjoying  her  month  in  town,  I  think.  Good- 
bye, my  child,  no  more  time.  I'm  awfully 
vexed  now  I  didn't  charter  a  hansom  yester- 
day to  go  up  that  blessed  hill  on  the  top  of 
which  it  pleases  you  to  live,  or  climb  it  on 
all  fours,  for  I  want  to  see  you  badly.  I 
have  been  very  busy,  and  naturally,  while 
my  mother  is  here,  I  have  less  time  than 
usual.  Your  loving 

JIM. 


A  SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      233 


SHE 

Wednesday  Night. 

YES,  old  darling,  I  quite  understand,  and 
I'll  count  the  hours  till  Friday.  Of  course  I 
was  disappointed  yesterday,  but  I  tried  to 
console  myself  by  thinking  that  you  might 
have  got  sunstroke  if  you  had  come ;  and 
then  in  the  evening,  when  I  felt  very  down- 
hearted, I  read  over  a  heap  of  your  letters — 
I  mean  those  you  sent  me  in  the  winter, 
when  you  first  loved  me.  They  were  so 
very  loving  that  they  made  me  quite  happy 
again.  Am  I  just  the  same  to  you  ?  I  don't 
know  why  I  ask  it ;  something  makes  me  do 
so.  Do  you  remember  that  night  we  walked 
up  and  down  the  garden  till  nearly*  twelve 
o'clock  and  talked  of  all  manner  of  serious 
things  ?  I  often  think  of  it.  You  said  that 
when  we  were  together  we  would  work  and 
read  and  try  to  understand  the  meaning  of 
many  things  that  seemed  like  lesson-books 
in  the  wide  world's  school,  and  that  now,  in 
the  holiday-time,  we  did  not  want  to  think 


234  °N  THE  WANE  : 

about.  The  lesson-time  would  surely  come, 
you  said,  so  that  we  need  not  grudge  our- 
selves our  laughter  and  our  joy.  I  remember 
that  you  said,  too,  that  work  was  the  most 
important  thing  in  life,  and  I  have  been 
wondering  if  that  is  so.  It  seems  rather  a 
cold  gospel.  But  perhaps  you  are  right. 
Your  love,  for  instance,  will  only  make  my 
happiness ;  but  your  work  may  help  the 
whole  world.  Is  that  what  you  meant,  dar- 
ling? All  this  because  of  that  happy  night 
when  you  took  my  face  between  your  hands 
and  looked  at  me  almost  solemnly  and  said, 
"  This  dear  face  is  my  life's  history,  thank 
God  for  that."  I  love  you  so — oh,  so  much 
when  I  think  of  your  voice — but  I  love  you 
always.  GWEN. 


VI 

HE 


Thursday  Morning. 

You  DEAR  SWEET,  —  You  are  a  most 
serious  person,  and  a  darling  and  a  goose, 
and  I  long  to  kiss  you;  but  look  here, 
Gwennie,  I  can't  come  Friday  either.  Mars- 


A  SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      235 

den  insists  on  having  half-a-dozen  men  to 
dine  with  him  at  the  Club,  and  there  must 
I  be  in  the  midst  of  them.  Will  Saturday 
do?  Nice  day  Saturday,  comes  before 
Sunday,  you  know :  best  preparation  in  the 
world  for  it  (seeing  that  I  shall  be  made  to 
go  to  church  next  morning  and  stay  till  the 
end  of  the  sermpn)  will  be  seeing  you  the 
night  before.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  take 
a  run  to  Clifton  for  a  little  bit  next  week ;  if 
so  I  shall  miss  your  garden-party,  I  fear  ; 
but  we'll  talk  about  this  on  Saturday. 
Yours  ever  and  ever  as  you  know. 

JIM. 

Work  ?  Of  course  we  must  work.  It  is 
one's  rent  in  the  world,  and  honest  folk 
must  pay  their  way.  Your  work  is  to  love 
me. 


VII 

SHE 

Thursday  Night. 

YES,  Jim  dear,  and  I  will  always  do  it. 
Come  on  Saturday.  I  shall  be  miserable  if 
you  are  not  at  our  garden-party,  and  fear  I 


236  ON  THE  WANE: 

shall  hardly  have  heart  to  go  on  with  it.  I 
am  a  selfish  thing ;  but  as  you  say,  we  will 
talk  of  it  on  Saturday.  Your  loving 

GWEN. 


VIII 

HE 

(A  Tele  grant) 

Saturday,  7.30  P.M. 

AWFULLY   sorry.     Relations   turned   up. 
Insist  on  my  dining.     Will  come  Monday. 

JIM. 


IX 

SHE 

Sunday,  July  2gt/i. 

OF  course  it  could  not  be  helped,  dear- 
est, yet  when  your  telegram  came  I  sat 
down  and  wept  as  devoutly  as  if  I  had  been 
by  the  waters  of  Babylon.  Relations  are 
exigeants,  I  know,  and  you  were  quite  right 
to  go  to  them,  yet  I  did  so  long  for  you. 


A   SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      237 

Our  little  feast  was  ready,  and  I  was  ready, 
in  the  blue  dress  that  you  said  I  looked 
pretty  in.  I  had  pinned  a  rose  on  my 
shoulder,  and  wondered  if  you  would  pull 
it  leaf  by  leaf  away;  you  did  last  time, 
do  you  remember?  I  shuddered  while  I 
thought  of  it.  It  was  like — but  I  will  not 
even  write  it.  Oh,  Jim  dear,  how  well  we 
can  sometimes  make  ourselves  shiver  at  the 
impossibilities !  I  know  you  love  me,  but 
the  little  things  that  have  kept  you  away 
from  me  oftener  than  usual  lately  make  me 
foolish  and  nervous ;  they  are  like  thongs 
that  threaten  to  become  a  whip,  and  would 
if  you  stayed  away  too  long.  But  you  won't  ? 
You  know  that  I  love  you,  as  you  do  me, 
and  that  I  am  weaker  and  cannot  bear  the 
days  apart  as  you  can,  you  who  have  many 
things  to  fill  your  life,  while  I  have  only  you 
to  fill  mine  —  only  you,  for  whom  I  would 
die,  and  think  death  sweet  if  it  did  you  even 
the  least  little  good. 

When  I  was  ready  last  night  I  went  out 
and  walked  up  and  down  under  the  veranda, 
before  the  windows.  I  looked  in  at  the 
drawing-room,  and  thought  of  how  we 
would  sit  there  on  the  little  low  sofa  after 
dinner,  watching  the  shadows  that  always 
seem  to  come  stealing  through  the  fir-trees ; 


238  ON   THE  WANE  : 

and  of  how  we  would  talk,  as  we  always  do, 
of  the  days  when  we  wondered  and  guessed 
about  each  other,  and  were  afraid  and  hoped ; 
or  of  how  we  would  plan  our  future  life  and 
arrange  the  things  we  would  some  day  do 
together.  The  dining-room  window  was 
open,  and  I  looked  in  there,  too,  at  our  table 
spread,  at  the  great  roses  in  the  bowl,  and 
the  candles  ready  for  lighting.  I  thought 
of  how  you  would  sit  at  the  head,  as  though 
you  were  master  already,  and  of  how,  when 
we  had  nearly  come  to  an  end,  dear  mother 
would  rise,  as  she  always  does,  and  say, 
"  You  will  not  mind  if  I  go,  dears  ;  I  am 
very  tired  ?"  and  you  would  open  the  door 
and  she  would  pass  out,  giving  you  a  little 
smile  as  she  went ;  and  then  you  would 
come  back  and  stoop  and  kiss  me  and  say, 
"  My  darling,"  just  as  you  always  do,  and 
each  time  seems  like  a  first  time.  But  you 
did  not  come,  and  did  not  come— and  then 
there  was  the  telegram.  I  know  the  quick, 
loud  sound,  the  clangingness  that  only  the 
telegraph  boy  puts  into  the  bell,  as  well  as 
I  know  your  footstep.  Sometimes  my  heart 
bounds  to  it ;  it  leaps  to  heaven  for  a  mo- 
ment, for  it  means  that  you  are  coming; 
and  sometimes  it  sinks.  Oh,  my  darling,  if 
you  only  knew  how  it  almost  stands  still 


A   SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      239 

sometimes  ! — it  did  last  night — for  it  means 
that  you  are  not  coming. 

Jim,  dear,  I  am  a  fool.  I  know  you  could 
not  help  it.  But  I  love  you  dearly,  and  will 
all  my  life.  I  kiss  this  paper  because  your 
hands  will  touch  it.  Good-night,  my  own. 

GWEN. 


HE 


Monday  Morning. 

You  SWEET  THING, — Your  letter  almost 
makes  me  ashamed  of  myself.  You  do  love 
me,  Gwen.  and  I  am  not  half  good  enough 
for  you.  I  wonder  how  I  dared  go  in  for  a 
girl  like  you,  or  what  I  ever  did  to  please 
God  that  He  should  give  me  a  love  like 
yours.  I  often  think  that  you  will  be  awfully 
disappointed  when  you  get  me  every  day  of 
your  life  and  find  out  what  a  commonplace 
beggar  I  am.  You  are  certain  to  find  that 
out  anyhow.  And  yet,  why  should  you? 
Does  not  Browning  say : 

"God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of   His  creatures, 
Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her." 


240  ON   THE  WANE  : 

I  don't  suppose  that  I  am  the  meanest  of 
His  creatures,  but  I  am  not  as  good  as  you, 
dear.  There  is  a  sort  of  looking-aheadness 
towards  Heaven  in  you  that  is  wholly  lack- 
ing in  me.  I  have  felt  that  very  keenly 
lately,  and  wondered  whether  any  vanity 
would  let  me  stand  being  made  the  subject 
of  your  being  disillusioned  about  mankind 
later  on.  There  is  one  thing  certain  :  what- 
ever happens  to  us  in  the  future,  we  have 
the  memory  of  good  love  behind  us ;  for  I 
have  loved  you,  Gwen  dear ;  always  remem- 
ber that. 

I  will  corne  up  this  evening,  and  we  will 
have  a  happy  time  together.  I  think  I 
must  go  to  Clifton,  after  all.  Mrs.  Seafield 
wants  me  to  help  them  through  with  Tom- 
my's coming  of  age.  Awfully  nice  woman, 
Mrs.  Seafield,  and  one  ought  to  encourage 
nice  people  by  doing  what  they  wish  occa- 
sionally. Be  good.  Don't  get  low-spirited 
or  entertain  ghosts  unawares,  or  do  anything 
but  love  me  till  I  come,  and  then  I  will  tell 
you  that  I  love  you,  which  will  be  better 
than  saying  it  here. 

I  think  you  ought  to  go  away  for.  a  bit ; 
you  strike  me,  from  your 'letters,  as  being  a 
little  strained  and  run  down.  It's  all  my 
fault,  isn't  it,  dearest  ?  For  I  prevented  you 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE     241 

from  going  to  Italy  last  winter  by  making 
you  be  engaged  to  me ;  and  then  we  didn't 
want  to  put  the  big  distance  between  us. 
Till  to-night,  Your  loving  JIM. 


XI 

HE 

(A  Telegram} 

CLIFTON,  August  ^d. 

No  time  to  write.  Garden-party,  etc., 
Friday.  Letter  to-morrow.  Staying  till 
Wednesday.  JIM. 


XII 

SHE 

Tuesday,  Attgust  "jth. 

DEAREST  JIM, — I  have  been  hoping  and 
hoping  to  hear  from  you.  Is  anything  the 
matter,  darling  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  Has  a  letter 
miscarried  ?  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  I 
cannot  believe  that  four  whole  days  have 

16 


242  ON  THE  WANE: 

passed  without  a  word,  and  yet  I  know  that 
I  am  foolish  to  worry  myself,  for  this  silence 
is  probably  due  to  some  trivial  accident. 
But  you  are  all  the  wide  world  to  me — you 
and  my  mother ;  and  in  these  last  days  apart 
you  seem  to  have  tightened  and  tightened 
round  my  heart  till  I  cannot  even  breathe 
without  thinking  of  you,  and  the  least  little 
bit  of  fear  about  you  makes  me  miserable. 

I  am  very  foolish,  Jim,  for  on  Monday 
night  after  you  had  gone  I  sat  up  till  it  was 
nearly  daylight  thinking  over  your  words  and 
looks.  I  fancied  they  had  been  different — 
that  you  had  been  different  altogether  lately. 
Perhaps  it  is  only  a  calm  setting  in,  a  re- 
action after  the  wild  love-making  of  the 
winter,  when  you  seemed  unable  to  live  a 
single  day  without  me.  It  could  not  be  al- 
ways like  that ;  I  knew  it  even  at  the  time. 
Perhaps  I  fancy  it  all ;  write  and  tell  me 
that  I  do.  But  I  have  felt  since  Monday  as 
if  only  the  ghost  of  your  love  remained  to 
me.  You  didn't  seem  so  glad  to  be  with 
me ;  you  did  not  look  at  me  so  often,  and 
you  broke  off  to  talk  of  outside  things  just 
when  I  thought  your  heart  was  full  of  me 
and  love  of  me. 

Your  mother  came  yesterday.  She  did 
not  stay  long.  She  did  not  ask  me  to  go 


A   SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      243 

to  her  in  the  autumn.  She  said  that  she 
had  heard  from  you,  and  my  heart  gave  a 
throb  of  pain,  knowing  that  I  had  not  had 
a  line.  In  her  manner  she  seemed  to  di- 
vine that  you  had  changed.  I  went  up- 
stairs after  she  had  gone  and  prayed  that 
if  it  were  so  I  might  never  know  it.  But 
for  my  poor  mummy  I  could  have  killed 
myself,  so  as  to  die  in  the  midst  of  uncer- 
tainty that  was  torture,  and  yet  joy  com- 
pared to  the  knowledge  that  might  come 
— the  knowledge  that  your  love  had  gone 
from  me. 

But  to-night  I  am  ashamed  of  all  my 
foolishness,  all  my  fears,  and  reproaching 
myself  for  doubting  you ;  for  I  know  that 
you  love  me — I  do  indeed.  I  live  over  all 
your  words  and  looks.  Do  you  remember 
that  night  by  the  pond — we  stole  out  by  the 
garden-gate — when  you  said  nothing  could 
ever  part  us ;  that  I  was  never,  never  to 
doubt  you,  no  matter  if  you  yourself  had 
made  me  do  so  for  the  moment  ?  You 
made  me  swear  I  never  would.  You  look- 
ed down  and  said,  "  My  sweet  wife,"  and 
made  me  say,  "  Yes,  Jim,  your  wife  "  after 
you,  because  you  wanted  me  to  feel  that  the 
tie  between  us  could  never  be  broken.  It 
is  the  memory  of  those  words,  of  that  night, 


244  ON  THE  WANE: 

that  helps  me  through  the  misery  and  wick- 
ed doubting  of  you  now.  Come  and  beat 
me  for  the  doubting  with  a  thick,  thick 
stick,  and  I  will  count  each  stroke  as  joy, 
and  love  you  more  and  more  for  every  one 
that  falls.  It  is  the  memory  of  that  night, 
too,  that  makes  me  send  you  this  —  that 
gives  me  courage  to  pour  out  all  my  heart 
to  you.  The  days  have  passed  for  make- 
believes  between  us  ;  I  cannot  pretend  to 
you ;  I  am  yours,  your  own,  and  very  own. 
Write  me  one  line  and  make  me  happy 
again,  and  forgive  me,  or  scold  me,  or  do 
what  you  will,  so  that  you  love  me  —  tell 
me  that,  and  I  shall  be  once  more  what  I 
have  been  all  these  months,  the  happiest, 
most  blessed  girl  in  the  whole  wide  world. 

GWEN. 


XIII 

HE 

Wednesday,  August  S///. 

DEAREST  GWEN,  —  What  a  sentimental 
child  you  are !  I  have  been  busy  :  tennis, 
dances,  garden-party,  picnic,  Tommy  com- 
ing of  age,  and  speeches — all  sorts  of  things 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      245 

crowded  into  a  week.  No  time  for  letter- 
writing.  It  is  very  jolly  here,  and  every- 
thing uncommonly  well  managed.  Nice 
people  in  the  neighborhood  ;  dinner-party 
last  night;  took  in  Ethel  Bertram — hand- 
some girl,  beautiful  dark  eyes,  said  to  be 
worth  a  pile  of  money. 

I  think  you  ought  to  have  more  occupa- 
tion, dear ;  you  seem  to  be  so  dependent 
now  on  your  affections  and  emotions,  you 
want  something  more  to  fill  your  life.  I 
wish  you  had  a  younger  companion  than 
your  mother — you  must  try  and  get  one 
somehow.  I  am  going  on  to  Devonshire 
on  Thursday  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and 
shall,  perhaps,  stay  here  again  for  a  day  or 
two  on  my  way  back.  Don't  fidget,  dear 
child.  No  more  time.  JIM. 


XIV 

SHE 

Thursday,  gt/i. 

JIM,  darling,  don't  say  I  am  sentimental 
— it  sounds  like  a  reproach ;  but  you  know 
we  always  write  each  other  foolish,  loving 
letters.  I  am  glad  you  are  having  a  good 


246  ON  THE  WANE: 

time.  I  suppose  it  was  very  foolish  of  me 
to  be  unhappy,  but  it  has  been  so  odd  to 
find  morning  after  morning  going  by  and 
no  sign  from  you.  You  spoiled  me  at  first 
by  writing  every  day. 

You  didn't  say  you  loved  me  in  your  note 
— tell  me  that  you  do  next  time ;  but  don't 
write  till  you  want  to  do  so.  Be  happy, 
darling,  and  I  will  be  happy,  too,  in  thinking 
of  you.  GWEN. 

XV 

HE 

(A   Telegram} 
HORRABRIDGE,  S.    DEVON, 

Friday i  August  nth. 

HAD  letter  yesterday.  Will  write  soon. 
Here  for  some  days.  JIM. 

XVI 

SHE 

Thursday,  August  22d. 

JIM,  dear,  do  send  me  a  line.  It  is  nearly 
a  fortnight  since  I  heard  from  you,  and  for 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      247 

a  long  time  your  letters  have  been  different ; 
they  have  indeed,  though  I  have  tried  to  dis- 
guise it  from  myself.  I  cannot  bear  it  any 
longer.  Tell  me  what  it  all  means,  for  it 
must  mean  something.  Speak  out,  I  im- 
plore you.  You  are  not  afraid  of  me,  are 
you,  darling  ?  Your  own  loving 

GWEN. 


XVII 

HE 

HORRABRIDGE,   Allgltst  2<\tk. 

IT  is  strange  how  quickly  a  woman  di- 
vines ;  and  your  heart  has  told  you  what  I 
have  not  had  the  courage  to  say.  Gwen, 
dear,  I  want  to  break  it  off,  not  because  I 
do  not  think  you  what  I  have  always  thought 
you,  or  because  I  care  for  any  one  else,  but 
simply  because  I  want  to  be  free.  Our  en- 
gagement no  longer  gives  me  the  pleasure  it 
did ;  I  look  forward  to  marriage  as  a  sort  of 
bondage  into  which  I  do  not  want  to  enter. 
I  am  perfectly  frank  with  you,  because  I  feel 
that  in  an  important  matter  like  this  it  is 
only  right.  Then,  dear,  you  know  my  moth- 
er never  approved  of  it;  parents  are  pru- 


248  ON  THE  WANE: 

dent  people,  and  she  thought  the  whole 
business  unwise.  I  struggled  against  her 
reasoning  all  I  could,  for  I  loved  you,  and 
thought  of  your  face,  and  of  how  you  loved 
me.  But  Gwen,  dear,  there  is  a  good  deal 
in  what  she  says.  You  see  you  couldn't 
leave  your  mother ;  and  we  should  have  to 
be  careful  about  money ;  for  I  am  not  a  fru- 
gal beggar,  and  there  are  lots  of  difficulties. 
I  ought  to  have  thought  of  them  before,  but 
you  were  so  sweet  and  good,  a  thousand 
times  too  good  for  me,  that  I  could  think 
of  nothing  but  you.  Say  you  forgive  me, 
and  believe  that  I  have  loved  you,  for  I 
have  ;  and  you  won't  hold  me  to  it,  will  you, 
Gwen  ?  I  know  this  will  cost  you  a  great 
deal,  but  you  are  a  brave  girl  and  will  bear 
it;  and  don't  reproach  me — I  could  not  bear 
your  reproaches.  I  am  a  scoundrel,  and  I 
know  it,  a  ruffian,  or  I  should  love  you  be- 
yond all  things,  as  I  ought.  J. 


XVIII 

SHE 

August  2%th. 

HOLD  you  to  it  when  you  want  to  be 
free  ?     I  would  not  be  so  much  of  a  cob- 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      249 

web.  Thank  God  that  in  your  letter  you 
were  able  at  least  to  say  that  you  had  loved 
me.  Reproach  you  ?  Why  should  I  ?  Men 
are  different  from  women — it  is  not  for  wom- 
en to  judge  them.  Besides,  I  love  you — I 
say  it  once  more  for  this  last  time  on  earth 
— so  much  and  so  truly  that  I  cannot  be 
angry,  much  less  reproachful.  Go,  and  be 
happy,  my  darling.  God  bless  you,  and 
good-bye.  GWEN. 


XIX 

HE 

(A  MONTH  LATER) 

September  2$ffi. 

I  BELIEVE  I  ought  to  ask  you  for  my  let- 
ters back.  Will  you  send  them,  or  write 
and  say  that  you  have  burned  them  ? — which 
you  prefer.  Forgive  me  for  troubling  you. 

J.  F. 

P.  S. — I  was  so  sorry  to  hear  through  the 
Markhams  that  you  had  been  ill. 


250  ON  THE  WANE: 

XX 

SHE 

HAMPSTEAD,  September  z"]th. 
I  SEND  back  your  letters,  and  your  ring, 
and  other  things.  I  ought  to  have  sent 
them  before,  but  could  not.  I  am  glad  you 
asked  for  them.  Thank  you,  I  am  better; 
and  to-morrow  we  start  for  Montreux,  and 
stay  there  through  the  winter;  perhaps 
much  longer.  Yours,  G.  W. 


XXI 

HE 

(A  YEAR  LATER) 


MY  DEAR  GWEN,  —  (Forgive  me,  but  I 
cannot  bring  myself  to  address  you  more 
formally)  —  I  saw  your  dear  mother's  death 
in  the  paper  yesterday.  You  have  not  been 
out  of  my  thoughts  since.  Perhaps  I  ought 
not  to  write  to  you,  but  I  can't  help  telling 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      251 

you  how  grieved  I  am  for  all  that  you  must 
be  suffering.  It  seems  so  rough  that  you 
should  be  left  alone  in  the  world.  I  heard 
that  your  Aunt  Mary  was  with  you,  and  I 
hope  that  you  may  be  going  to  live  with 
her;  but  probably  you  are  not  able  yet  to 
think  of  your  future. 

Of  course  I  do  not  know  if  you  are  coming 
back  to  England  soon  ;  but  if  not,  and  there 
is  anything  I  could  get  or  do  for  you  over 
here,  or  anything  I  could  do  for  you  at  any 
time,  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  privilege  I 
should  think  it.  This  is  not  the  time  to  say 
it,  perhaps,  but  I  respect  no  woman  on  earth 
as  I  do  you,  and  I  should  think  it  the  great- 
est honor  to  be  of  service  to  you.  I  dare 
not  hope  that  you  will  send  me  any  reply  to 
this,  still  less  that  you  ever  think  of  me 
kindly.  But  do  believe  how  true  is  my 
sympathy.  Yours  always,  J.  F. 


XXII 

SHE 

GLION,  August  $th. 

THANK  you  for  your  letter.    Yes,  my  dear 
mother  is  gone ;    it  seems  so  strange  and 


252  ON  THE  WANE: 

still  without  her.  I  sit  and  stare  into  an 
empty  world.  Thank  you ;  but  there  is  noth- 
ing you  can  do  for  me.  I  always  think  of 
you  kindly.  Why  should  I  not  do  so  ? 

I  am  going  to  live  with  Aunt  Mary.  My 
mother  arranged  it  all.  We  are  not  coming 
back  to  England  yet;  we  stay  here  a  little 
time,  then  go  down  to  Montreux  again  for 
winter.  Yours,  G.  W. 


XXIII 

HE 

(six  MONTHS  LATER) 

February  isf. 

I  DON'T  know  how  I  am  going  to  write 
to  you ;  I  have  been  longing  to  do  it  for 
months  past  and  not  daring-. 

It  will  be  better  to  plunge  at  once. 
Gwennie,  could  you  forgive  me  and  take 
me  back  ?  I  should  not  be  mad  enough 
to  think  it  possible,  but  that  I  know  you  to 
be  the  dearest  girl  on  earth,  and  the  most 
constant.  You  did  love  me  once,  and  though 
perhaps  you  will  only  laugh  at  my  audacity, 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      253 

deep  down  in  my  heart  something  tells  me 
that  you  care  for  me  a  little  bit  still,  or  at 
least  that  you  could  care  for  me  again.  I 
remember  your  saying  in  one  of  your  last 
letters  that  the  time  had  passed  for  make- 
believes  between  us ;  and  if,  in  spite  of  all, 
you  have  any  feeling  left  for  me,  I  know 
that  you  will  tell  me  frankly  and  truly  just 
as  a  less  noble  woman  would  hide  it. 

I  have  often  wondered  how  I  could  throw 
away  a  love  like  yours.  I  must  have  been 
mad.  I  know  now  what  it  is,  having  once 
had  it,  to  be  without  it.  You  are  far  more  to 
me  than  you  were  in  .the  old  days — far  more 
than  any  words  can  tell.  I  am  always  think- 
ing of  you — you  are  never  out  of  my  thoughts. 
Oh,  my  darling,  forgive  me  and  take  me 
back !  Longing  for  a  word  from  you,  yet 
hardly  daring  to  hope — I  am  yours,  loving 
you.  J. 


XXIV 

SHE 

February  3</. 

YES,  I  am  just  the  same.     I  never  loved 
any  one   but  you,  and  I  have  not  left  off 


254  ON  THE  WANE: 

loving  you.  I  think  I  have  known  that  you 
would  come  back  to  me.  It  feels  like  find- 
ing my  way  home,  just  when  all  the  world 
was  at  an  end.  You  do  not  know  what 
anguish  I  have  suffered  and  how  I  have 
tried  to  be  brave ;  but  without  you,  without 
my  mother — O  God !  But  now  some  light 
seems  to  be  breaking  through  the  darkness. 
Yours  once  more,  Jim,  dear  —  my  Jim 
again.  GWEN. 


XXV 

HE 

February  ^th. 

MY  SWEET  GWEN,  MY  OWN  DEAR  GIRL, — 
I  kissed  your  little  letter  and  longed  to  .kiss 
you.  You  are  a  million  times  too  good  for 
me,  but  you  shall  be  happy  this  time  if  I  can 
make  you  so.  I  can't  believe  that  we  are  all 
right  again.  I  should  like  to  go  down  on  my 
knees  and  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  all  I 
did,  only  I  am  such  an  impudent  beggar 
that  kneeling  isn't  much  in  my  line. 

And  when  shall  we  be  married,  my  sweet? 
You  had  much  better  take  possession  of  me 
as  soon  as  possible — not  that  there  is  any 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE     255 

fear  of  my  going  astray  any  more, but  there's 
nothing  to  wait  for,  is  there  ?  When  are 
you  coming  back  from  Montreux  ?  Shall  I 
come  out  and  fetch  you  ?  I  should  like  to — 
in  fact,  I  should  rush  off  this  very  minute 
just  to  look  at  your  dear  face  again,  but 
that  I  am  rather  in  awe  of  Aunt  Mary — 
and  I  am  rather  in  awe  of  you,  too,  my  dar- 
ling—and half  afraid  of  seeing  you  for  the 
first  time.  It  is  all  too  good  to  be  true — 
at  least  it  feels  so  just  yet.  I  could  get  away 
for  a  whole  fortnight  in  March,  and  I  don't 
think  I  can  go  longer  than  that  without  see- 
ing you.  It  is  horrible  to  remember  all  the 
months  in  which  we  have  been  apart.  Let 
us  be  together  now,  and  forever,  as  soon  as 
it  is  possible.  We  will  be  so  happy  the  fates 
won't  know  us. 

Your  happy  and  devoted 

JIM. 


XXVI 

SHE 

February  I2tk. 

DEAR, — Your    letter    almost    made    me 
laugh — it  was  just  like  you. 


256  ON    THE   WANE  : 

It  is  very  strange  to  sit  down  and  write 
to  you  again  and  to  know  that  all  is  right 
between  us.  I  don't  realize  it  yet ;  but  I 
shall  soon,  I  suppose.  Now  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  inside  a  dream,  groping  about  trying  to 
find  my  way  into  the  waking  world  and  half 
fearing  that  there  it  would  be  different.  But 
life  has  become  a  restful  thing  again  ;  some 
of  the  aching  loneliness  seems  to  have  been 
swept  out  of  my  heart— not  all,  for  I  miss 
my  dear  mother  terribly,  and  keep  longing 
to  tell  her  about  this  ;  it  chokes  me  to  think 
she  cannot  hear,  that  perhaps  she  does  not 
know. 

My  dear  old  Jim,  how  glad  I  am  to  come 
back  to  you  and  to  be  loved  again  !  In  my 
thoughts  I  listen  to  the  sound  of  your 
laughter,  and  see  your  face,  and  hear  your 
quick  footstep.  I  shall  laugh  too,  presently, 
but  now  I  am  still  too  much  crushed  by  the 
remembrance  of  the  past  months,  as  well  as 
overcome  by  this  great  happiness,  to  do 
anything  but  be  very  grave  and  silent.  Soon 
I  shall  grow  used  to  it,  and  shake  my  bells 
again.  For  some  strange  reason  I  don't 
want  you  to  come  just  yet.  I  am  afraid  of 
you,  too,  and  yet  I  long  to  see  and  hear  and 
know,  not  merely  dream,  as  I  half  do  still, 
that  you  love  me  again,  and  that  all  the  old 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      257 

life  is  going  to  begin  once  more.  But  come 
in  March ;  Aunt  Mary  talks  of  going  back 
to  England  in  April. 

We  must  not  be  married  just  yet,  not  till 
the  summer  is  over,  till  the  year  is  past — till 
I  am  your  frivolous  Gwennie  again,  instead 
of  a  grave  person  in  a  sober  black  gown. 
Dear  Jim,  I  begin  to  think  how  wonderful  it 
will  be  to  be  with  you  all  my  life,  to  do 
things  for  you,  to  fetch  and  carry  and  be 
useful.  A  woman's  hands  always  long  to  be 
busy  for  those  she  loves ;  since  mother  died 
mine  have  been  idle — they  are  waiting  for 
you.  If  I  could  only  get  rid  of  the  tiredness 
that  is  still  in  my  heart  and  soul — but  I  shall 
when  I  am  with  you.  We  will  read  and 
talk  and  think,  and  take  long  walks  together 
— all  this  will  make  me  strong  again.  We 
will  begin  when  you  come  here  —  to  this 
beautiful  place.  The  snow  is  on  the  mount- 
ains white  and  thick,  and  the  lake  is  blue. 
When  the  sun  shines  I  wonder  if  heaven 
itself  can  be  much  better.  Good-night, 
dear  Jim.  Your  GWEN. 

17 


258  ON  THE  WANE: 

XXVII 

HE 

February  i^th. 

ALL  right,  my  darling,  I  will  come  in 
March !  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  am 
going  to  see  you  again  so  soon  \  and  oh, 
Gwennie,  it  is  good  to  feel  that  you  are  mine 
again.  You  dear  wifely  thing,  to  plan  how 
you  will  take  care  of  me  with  your  two  sweet 
hands.  I  want  you  to  have  your  ring  back, 
my  precious  one ;  I  shall  bring  it  with  me 
and  put  it  on  your  finger. 

I  have  been  considering  ways  and  means. 
Do  you  know  that  I  am  growing  rich,  and 
can  give  you  many  more  luxuries  and  pretty 
frocks  and  things  than  I  could  have  man- 
aged before  ?  What  do  you  say  to  a  flat  to 
begin  with,  somewhere  on  the  right  side  of 
the  park,  not  too  far  from  the  Club  ?  My 
mother  had  one  last  year  for  a  few  months, 
and  said  it  was  much  better  and  less  trouble 
than  a  house. 

Have  you  had  a  new  photograph  taken 
lately?  I  want  to  see  if  your  face  looks 
just  the  same,  and  what  you  have  done  with 


A  SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      259 

your  dimple.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you 
in  a  black  gown,  my  poor  darling ;  you  must 
try  and  put  it  off  as  soon  as  you  can.  I 
want  to  see  you  in  the  old  blue  one,  and  I 
would  give  anything  to  walk  about  with  you 
once  again  in  the  garden  at  Hampstead.  I 
often  think  of  your  face  as  it  used  to  look 
under  the  trees,  and  of  how  we  used  to  steal 
out  in  the  dusk  by  the  garden  door,  and 
over  the  heath  and  round  by  the  pond.  It 
is  a  thousand  times  better  to  think  of  than 
your  Swiss  mountains  and  blue  lake  out 
there.  But  I  shall  come  and  see  those  too, 
soon,  and  then  I  sha'n't  be  jealous  of  them 
any  more.  Tell  me  in  your  next  letter  that 
you  love  me,  my  darling  (you  didn't  in  your 
last),  and  that  I  am  just  the  same  to  you  as 
you  are  to  me,  only  you  are  a  hundred  times 
more — more  and  more  every  day. 

Your  adoring  old  JIM. 


XXVIII 

SHE 

February  zoth. 

MY  DEAREST  JIM, — I  am  just  the  same, 
darling,  and  I  love  you ;  but  I  have  not  your 


260  ON  THE  WANE: 

wild  spirits  ;  that  is  all.  The  past  year  has 
sobered  me  down — only  one  year,  as  time  is 
measured,  but  it  has  made  me  many  long 
ones  older. 

I  am  glad  you  are  growing  rich  ;  it  shows 
that  the  world  likes  you.  Yes,  dear,  we  will 
have  a  flat  if  you  like  and  where  you  like. 
It  would  be  nice  if  we  could  get  one  some- 
where away  from  noise  and  hurry.  I  long 
for  a  cosey  room  with  book-shelves  round  it, 
and  a  library  that  will  grow  and  grow,  and 
prove  that  we  have  new  books  very  often. 
I  hope  we  shall  do  heaps  of  reading,  for  I 
have  become  quite  studious  ;  you  will  hard- 
ly know  your  frivolous  sweetheart.  But  the 
walks  by  the  lake  or  along  the  upper  roads 
day  after  day,  always  alone  amid  the  silences, 
have  set  me  thinking.  The  world  seems  to 
have  stretched  out  so  far  and  to  be  so  full 
of  things  it  wants  to  tell  us  if  we  will  but 
listen.  I  long  to  talk  about  them  with  you. 
We  were  young,  and  so  much  taken  up  with 
ourselves  in  the  old  days  that  we  had  little 
time  to  think  of  all  that  is  most  to  us — after 
love. 

You  shall  not  scoff  at  this  lovely  place, 
you  dear,  bad  person.  I  long  to  take  you 
up  to  Les  Avants,  and  over  the  way  to  Savoy, 
and  to  make  you  look  towards  the  Rhone 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE     261 

Valley — there  at  the  head  of  the  lake  with 
the  mountains  on  either  side  forming  a  gate- 
way. I  made  a  dozen  romances  about  the 
far,  far  off  in  which  the  valley  ends  almost 
at  the  feet  of  Italy,  till  the  other  day  when 
I  was  sadly  taken  down  by  Uncle  Alfred 
who  was  here.  I  told  him  of  all  the  mys- 
teries and  fairy  stories  that  seemed  to  be 
lurking  in  the  valley,  and  he  laughed  and 
said  there  was  none  there ;  it  was  only  very 
long  and  very  uninteresting,  and  might  be 
described  as  Switzerland  run  to  seed.  I  see 
it  with  such  different  eyes ;  but  then  they 
are  not  the  eyes  that  are  in  my  head.  Peo- 
ple say  that  Death  is  a  scene-shifter;  and 
so  is  every  new  experience.  Experience 
has  made  all  things  look  different  to  me ; 
only  those  that  are  in  my  memory  remain 
the  same,  all  that  I  actually  see  and  hear 
have  changed. 

Are  you  fond  of  the  world,  Jim,  and  do 
you  think  much  about  it  ?  It  seems  such 
an  absurd  question,  and  yet  it  is  not.  I 
mean  the  world  in  itself.  I  have  learned  to 
see  that  it  is  very  beautiful,  and  to  feel  so 
reverential  when  I  think  of  all  the  human 
feet  that  have  walked  through  it,  and  all  the 
hands  that  have  worked  for  it.  I  want  to 
do  my  share  of  work  in  it  too,  if  it  be  pos- 


262  ON  THE  WANE: 

sible :  I  should  like  to  make  it  something 
beautiful.  A  little  while  ago  I  read  Maz- 
zini  ;  do  you  remember  that  he  says  we 
ought  to  regard  the  world  as  a  workshop  in 
which  we  have  each  to  make  something 
good  or  beautiful  with  the  help  of  the  oth- 
ers? I  am  not  strong  enough  to  do  any- 
thing by  myself,  but  if  you  and  I  together 
could  ever  do  it,  even  the  least  little  good, 
darling,  it  would  be  something  to  remember 
thankfully.  We  would  count  it  as  our  trib- 
ute in  return  for  each  other's  love,  which  it 
had  given  us.  Sometimes  I  have  thought 
that  the  world  is  like  a  great  bank  into 
which  we  put  good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow, 
for  all  the  coming  generations  to  draw  upon. 
We  won't  leave  them  any  evil  or  sorrow  if 
we  can  help  it,  will  we  ?  I  should  never  have 
done  anything  by  myself  save  brood  and 
dream ;  but  now  it  seems  as  if  a  door  is 
opening  and  we  shall  go  through  together 
to  find  a  hundred  things  that  we  must  do. 
I  am  so  ambitious  for  you,  Jim.  I  want  you 
to  do  and  be  so  much ;  and  nothing  achieved 
will  ever  seem  enough  or  wholly  satisfy  me. 
I  want  you  to  climb  the  heavenly  heights, 
my  darling,  not  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but 
in  work  and  deeds.  Do  you  understand? 
Oh,  how  I  pray  that  you  do ! 


A    SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      263 

I  am  half  ashamed  to  write  all  this  to 
you.  But  so  many  things  have  crept  into 
my  heart  and  soul  in  these  long  months, 
and  between  the  hours  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
and  I  do  not  want  you  to  be  a  stranger 
among  thoughts  and  longings  I  never  ex- 
pected to  put  into  words.  I  wish  I  knew  of 
the  things  that  you  think  about,  in  the  inner 
life  that  most  of  us  live  silently,  and  seldom 
speak  of  at  all.  We  only  can  speak  of  them 
to  the  one  person  we  love  best,  or  to  some 
strange  being  we  may  not  even  love,  but 
that  our  soul  seems  to  recognize  as  if  it  had 
found  one  it  had  known  centuries  before,  or 
in  some  shadowy  dream-land  of  which  it 
could  not  give  account.  There  are  many 
walls  of  silences  to  break  down  between  us, 
and  many  things  on  which  we  must  build 
together  before  we  know  each  other  abso- 
lutely. Let  us  try  to  begin  at  once.  Oh, 
Jim,  don't  laugh  at  me  for  writing  all  this  ! 
Remember  I  have  only  you  in  the  wide 
world  now.  I  love  my  mother  still ;  I  ache 
and  long  for  her,  but  it  is  a  different  love 
from  that  which  is  given  to  the  living — it  is 
more  like  religion.  I  cannot  hear  her  voice, 
or  see  her  face ;  my  hands  cannot  touch 
her ;  I  have  only  you  now  in  my  human  life. 
And  it  is  a  blessed  rest,  darling,  to  have 


264  ON   THE  WANE  I 

your  love  again.  I  think  I  was  dying  of 
tiredness  ;  but  now  I  shall  grow  very  strong 
— strong  to  love  you,  dear. 

Always  your  GWEN. 


XXIX 

HE 

February 

You  are  a  dear,  sweet,  beloved  child  ;  but 
don't  let  us  discuss  heaven  and  earth  and 
the  musical  glasses  in  our  love-letters — just 
yet  at  any  rate.  No  doubt  we  shall  come  to 
it  in  time  and  double  dummy  too  ;  but  let 
us  wait  our  turn.  Tell  me  you  love  me 
again.  I  shall  never  get  tired  of  hearing 
that ;  and  in  your  next  letter  could  you  not 
say,  "  I  send  you  a  kiss,  Jim,"  then  I  shall 
know  it  really  is  all  right.  I  send  you  a 
thousand,  just  like  a  Mary  Jane  the  cook's 
young  man. 

I  want  to  see  you  so  much,  you  precious 
thing,  that  I  am  going  to  rush  to  you  next 
week.  Then  we  can  go  to  Savoy  and  Les 
Avants  and  anywhere  else  you  please.  I 
sha'n't  mind  how  long  the  walks  are,  or  how 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      265 

lonely.  You  can  bet  we  won't  talk  very 
big  talk,  but  we'll  be  happier  than  any  two 
people  have  been  since  Adam  and  Eve  be- 
fore they  let  the  serpent  in.  I  can't  live 
any  longer  without  seeing  your  dear  face, 
and  I  think  of  starting  on  Tuesday.  Shall 
I  be  welcome  ? — say,  you  gypsy.  You  will 
only  just  have  time  to  send  one  more  letter 
before  I  start ;  make  it  a  nice  one,  my  sweet. 
Your  devoted  JIM. 


XXX 

SHE 

February  2"jth. 

DEAREST, —  You  would  have  been  wel- 
come, but  all  our  arrangements  are  sud- 
denly altered.  Aunt  Mary  has  some  im- 
portant business,. and  we  start  for  England 
to-morrow.  We  arrive  on  Wednesday  morn- 
ing. Isn't  this  good  news,  old  dear  ?  I  am 
so  glad  that  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  any- 
thing but  happiness  now  —  not  even  of 
heaven  and  earth  and  the  musical  glasses. 
I  am  afraid  of  myself — of  my  two  feet  that 
will  walk  towards  you,  and  my  two  eyes  that 


266  ON  THE  WANE: 

will  see  you,  and  my  ears  that  will  hear  you. 
I  love  you,  and  you  know  it.  Good-bye  till 
we  meet.  I  will  telegraph  from  Dover. 

Your  own  GWEN. 

P.  S—  Oh,  but  I  can't,  I  am  shy ;  and  it's 
so  long  since — 


XXX  t 

SHE 
(THREE  WEEKS  LATER) 

BRYANSTON  ST.  ,  March  26t/i. 

DEAREST  JIM, — Don't  come  this  evening ; 
there  are  so  many  things  to  look  through  ; 
I  must  begin  them  indeed. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter ;  you  are  very 
good  to  me,  dear.  GWEN. 


XXXII 

HE 

March  2Jt/i. 

VERY  well,  my  darling,  I'll  wait  till   to- 
morrow.    Is  anything  the  matter  with  you, 


A   SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      267 

sweet  ?  It  is  odd,  but  since  the  first  rush 
of  meeting  you  have  seemed  so  grave,  and 
there  is  a  little  stately  reserve  that  clings 
to  you  and  makes  me  feel  out  in  the  cold- 
I  cannot  even  guess  of  what  you  are  think- 
ing :  before  I  always  knew  without  your  tell- 
ing me.  Don't  be  like  that  with  me,  dear 
one.  Let  us  be  just  as  we  were  in  the  old 
days.  I  love  you  ten  times  more  than  I 
used,  and  there  is  something  sad  in  your 
face  that  makes  me  loathe  myself  for  all 
the  pain  I  once  caused  you.  You  have  for- 
given me,  haven't  you,  my  darling?  I  was  a 
brute,  but  I  know  it ;  and  I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart. 

Your  devoted  JIM. 


XXXIII 

SHE 

April  2d. 

DEAREST  JIM, — I  am  sorry,  but  I  can't  go 
to  the  National  Gallery  to-morrow.  Aunt 
Mary  wants  me  to  help  her  a  good  deal  just 
now.  We  think  of  going  to  Torquay  for  a 
little  bit.  This  English  wind  is  very  cutting. 


268  ON  THE  WANE: 

Thank  you,  dearie,  for  the  magazines  and 
the  flowers.  You  are  much  too  good  to  me ; 
I  often  think  that.  GWEN. 


XXXIV 

HE 

April  4tA. 

MY  DARLING, — What  is  the  matter  ?  You 
are  always  making  excuses  now ;  don't  you 
care  about  seeing  me?  Have  I  offended 
you  ?  Send  me  one  line.  My  love  for  you 
has  grown  through  all  the  months  you  were 
away,  but  I  can't  help  fearing  that  yours  for 
me  has  waned. 

JIM. 

XXXV 

SHE 

April  bth. 

YES,  Jim  dear,  I  care  about  seeing  you,  of 
course ;  but  I  have  so  many  things  to  think 
about.  Aunt  Mary's  cough  is  much  worse, 
and  we  have  decided  to  go  off  to  Torquay 
at  once.  We  shall  be  gone  by  the  time  you 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      269 

get  this.  I  am  so  sorry  not  to  have  seen 
you  again,  but  we  shall  be  back  in  a  fortnight 
if  it  is  warmer.  Oh,  Jim  dear,  once  more 
you  are  too  good  to  me !  Why  have  you 
sent  me  that  packet  ? 

Your  grateful  GWEN. 


XXXVI 

SHE 

(A  Telegram) 

April  %th. 

THE  address  is  Belle  Vue,  Torquay.    Aunt 
Mary  better  ;  will  write  to-morrow. 


XXXVII 

HE 

LONDON,  April  %th. 

GWEN,  DEAR, — This  can't  go  on.  Things 
are  all  wrong  between  us.  I  felt  it  even  the 
first  evening -you  came  back.  What  is  the 
matter  ?  Do  tell  me,  my  darling.  Is  it  any- 


2;o  ON  THE  WANE: 

thing  that  I  have  said  or  done  ?   With  greater 
love  than  words  can  tell, 

Your  miserable  old  JIM. 


XXXVIII 

SHE 

(A  Telegram) 

April  loth. 

WILL  write  to-morrow.  It  is  very  difficult. 
Have  been  thinking  day  and  night  what  to 
say,  but  you  shall  hear  without  fail  to-mor- 
row. 

XXXIX 

SHE 

TORQUAY,  April  nth. 

JIM, — I  am  miserable  too,  more  miserable 
than  words  can  say.  I  want  you  to  do  for 
me  what  I  did  for  you  before — to  set  me  free 
and  let  me  go.  I  -have  struggled  against  it, 
tried,  reasoned  with  myself,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  It  is  no  use  disguising  the  truth, 


A   SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      2/1 

cost  you  or  me  what  it  may.  I  am  changed, 
but  I  cannot  tell  why  nor  how,  only  that  it 
is  so.  Dear  Jim,  forgive  me,  I  entreat  you, 
and  let  me  go.  GWEN. 


XL 

HE 

LONDON,  April  \2.th. 

DEAREST, — But  there  must  be  some  mean- 
ing to  this.  Write  and  tell  me  what  it  is. 
You  must  care  for  me  still,  darling;  you 
could  not  have  been  true  to  me  all  this  time 
if  you  could  change  so  easily.  Write  and 
tell  me  what  has  come  over  you.  Perhaps 
it  is  something  that  I  can  explain  away;  I 
cannot  bear  to  let  you  go.  Speak  out,  I 
implore  you,  darling.  JIM. 


XLI 

SHE 

TORQUAY,  April  i^th. 

I  DO  not  know  what  has  come  over  me. 
I  do  care  for  you,  but  I  think  it  is  simple 


272  ON   THE   WANE  : 

affection  or  friendship  that  I  feel — I  am  not 
in  love  any  more.  I  did  not  know  it  at 
Montreux.  Every  day  since  we  parted  I 
had  lived  in  the  memory  of  your  love.  I 
thought  I  was  just  the  same,  and  never 
dreamed  of  change  till  after  we  came  back — 
then  I  found  it  out.  All  the  life,  all  the 
reality,  all  the  sunshine,  seem  to  have  gone 
out  of  my  love  for  you.  I  used  to  feel  my 
heart  beat  quick  when  you  came ;  now  it 
does  not.  I  used  to  hear  your  footstep  with 
a  start  of  joy ;  it  is  nothing  to  me  now ;  I 
listen  to  it  curiously,  or  with  a  little  dismay. 
I  am  not  eager  when  you  come,  and  cannot 
make  myself  so.  I  never  go  forward  to 
meet  you.  Have  you  not  noticed  how  I 
stand  still* on  the  hearth-rug  as  you  enter  ? 
Something  holds  me  there  with  a  sense  of 
guilty  coldness  in  my  heart.  Have  you  not 
felt  the  silence  fall  between  us  when  we  try 
to  talk  ?  We  have  nothing  to  say ;  and 
while  we  sit  and  stare  at  each  other  my  soul 
seems  to  be  far  off,  living  another  life.  It  is 
almost  a  relief  when  you  go ;  yet  I  dread 
the  tenderness  of  your  good-bye.  I  used  to 
think  of  home  together  as  dearest  life  ;  now 
I  wonder  how  we  should  drag  through  the 
days.  There  are  places  I  want  to  see,  things 
I  want  to  do,  plans  to  think  over,  books  to 


A    SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      273 

read  :  and  between  all  these  you  seem  to 
stand  like  a  fate.  It  is  my  fault — all,  all. 
You  are  just  the  same,  but  I  am  different ; 
and  I  can't  marry  you,  Jim  ;  I  can't,  indeed. 
I  know  the  pain  I  am  costing  you  ;  did  I 
not  suffer  it  through  long,  long  months  ? 
But  believe  that  I  have  tried  to  be  true — 
tried  and  tried,  dear.  I  did  not  dream  till 
we  met  that  only  the  ghost  of  the  old  love 
remained — the  memory  of  it,  the  shadow ; 
that  the  reality  had  slipped  away ;  that  pain 
had  quenched  it.  I  would  give  the  wide 
world  to  be  once  again  the  girl  who  loved 
you,  who  was  so  merry  and  so  happy,  who 
used  to  walk  about  the  Hampstead  garden 
counting  the  minutes  till  you  came.  But  it 
is  no  good.  I  am  a  woman,  with  only  a  re- 
membrance of  the  girl,  and  I  am  altogether 
different.  Forgive  me,  dear  Jim ;  forgive 
me  and  let  me  go.  GWEN. 


XLII 

HE 

April  14/7*. 

MY  DARLING, — I  can't  do  it;  for  God's 
sake  don't  throw  me  over,  for  I  can't  face 

18 


274  ON  THE  WANE: 

it.  It  is  all  fancy,  dear.  You  have  been  ill 
and  strained  and  worried ;  you  have  been 
left  too  much  alone ;  you  have  grown  too 
introspective  ;  wait,  and  it  will  all  come  right 
again.  I  love  you  more  and  more  every 
day ;  and  after  all  the  months  in  which  I 
loved  you,  and  never  dared  to  make  a  sign, 
you  won't  treat  me  like  this  ?  Think  of  the 
days  we  spent  together  long  ago,  and  the 
plans  we  made.  You  are  not  going  to  chuck 
them  all  away  ?  I  would  do  anything  on 
earth  for  you,  and  you  shall  have  my  whole 
life's  devotion.  Write  and  tell  me  that  you 
will  take  it,  my  darling,  and  bear  with  me, 
and  try  to  love  me  again.  I  can't  let  you 
go,  Gwen.  It's  no  good,  I  can't  face  it. 

Your  adoring  and  devoted  and  miserable 
old  JIM. 


XLIII 

SHE 

April 

BUT,  Jim  dear,  you  must  —  you  must  set 
me  free.  I  can't  go  on ;  it  is  not  that  I  am 
strained  or  morbid  or  too  introspective,  or 
anything  of  the  sort,  only  this— I  can't  marry 


A   SENTIMENTAL   CORRESPONDENCE      275 

you,  and  I  can't.  Sorrow  and  loneliness 
have  made  me  think,  have  opened  my  eyes 
wide,  and  I  see  that  we  are  strangers  inward- 
ly, even  while  outwardly  we  are  lovers.  You 
loved  me  at  Hampstead  for  my  laughter,  my 
love  of  you,  my  big  hat,  the  shady  garden, 
my  gladness  to  be  loved  —  for  a  hundred 
things  that  do  not  belong  to  the  life  that  is 
mine  now.  So,  too,  I  loved  you  back,  because 
of  your  merry  voice,  your  handsomeness, 
your  love  of  me — because  of  the  holiday- 
time  we  made  of  life  when  we  were  together. 
But  that  time  is  over  for  ever  and  ever.  You 
cannot  give  me  back  my  laughter,  my  girl- 
hood, the  happiness  that  almost  frightened 
me ;  they  are  gone,  they  will  never  find  their 
way  to  me  again  ;  and  my  love  for  you  was 
bound  up  with  them — it  has  gone,  too.  Some- 
times my  heart  cries  out,  longing  for  its  old 
feelings  again,  till  I  feel  like  Faust  before  &»>+ 
he  conjured  Mephistopheles  to  him,  save  for 
his  years  —  the  actual  years  that  time 
out ;  or  like  a  Hindoo  for  whom  the  time  has  ' 
come  to  vanjsh  into  f he  forest  and  dream. VJ.  tJi 
Only  twenty-three,  Jim,  but  youth  has  gone  ,&>  ^ 
you  cannot  have  back  the  girl  who  laughed 
and  loved  you  so — she  does  not  exist ;  part- 
ing and  silence  killed  her.  It  sounds  like  a 
reproach,  but  God  knows  it  is  not  one.  And 


2/6  -ON  THE   WANE  : 

no  new  feelings  have  grown  up  to  take  the 
place  of  the  old  ones  that  are  dead.  We 
are  almost  strangers,  and  I  cannot  reconcile 
myself  to  the  thought  of  our  being  more 
than  friends.  I  even  shrink  from  you  and 
shudder.  Your  laughter  does  not  gladden 
me ;  your  talk  does  not  hold  my  senses  any 
longer ;  and  concerning  the  things  of  which 
I  think  most  my  lips  of  themselves  refuse  to 
speak. 

The  very  ring  on  my  finger  frets  and  wor- 
ries me.  In  the  old  days  I  used  to  kiss  it, 
and  wish  it  hurt  me,  that  it  burned  or  bit,  so 
that  I  might  feel  through  pain,  as  through 
all  things,  the  joy  of  loving  you.  But  now  I 
turn  and  twist  it  round  as  a  prisoner  does 
his  fetter,  longing,  yet  afraid,  as  he  is  unable 
to  shake  it  off,  till  you  shall  give  me  leave 
and  set  me  free. 

You  can't  marry  me,  Jim  dear,  feeling  as 
I  do  now.  It  would  be  madness.  It  is  of 
no  use  making  our  whole  lives  a  failure,  or 
a  tragedy,  because  we  have  not  the  courage 
to  face  the  pain  of  parting  now.  If  I  thought 
you  would  be  happy  with  me  I  would  hesi- 
tate, but  we  should  neither  of  us  be  happy. 
And  it  is  not  as  if  this  were  a  passing  phase  ; 
I  know  that  it  is  not.  I  live  in  another 
world  from  you  now.  I  do  not  know  if  it  is 


A   SENTIMENTAL  CORRESPONDENCE      277 

better  or  worse,  only  that  it  is  different ;  it 
seems  as  if  in  the  past  months  a  hand  was 
stretched  out ;  I  took  it  and  went  on,  almost 
dazed — on  and  on  while  you  stood  still.  I 
am  going  farther,  and  shall  never  return,  but 
you  will  be  in  the  world  behind  me.  There 
may  be  happiness  for  me,  and  life  and  love 
once  more ;  I  do  not  know ;  but  it  will  be 
far,  far  off,  away  from  you.  Between  us  all 
things  have  finished.  I  cannot  turn  and  go 
back  into  the  old  year,  the  old  love,  the  old 
life ;  I  have  passed  them  all  by  for  good  or 
ill.  Oh,  Jim,  understand  and  let  me  go  !  for- 
give me  all  the  pain  I  have  cost  you,  and 
let  me  go.  GWEN. 


XLIV 
HE 

April  is///. 

ALL  right — go.  I  thought  you  the  most 
constant  girl  on  earth :  that  you  loved  me  as 
I  do  you.  Since  it  pleases  you  to  play  fast 
and  loose  with  me,  let  it  be  so.  My  feelings, 
of  course,  are  of  no  account  weighed  against 
your  fancies.  You  have  shaken  all  my  faith 
in  women ;  for  I  did  believe  in  you,  Gwen. 
Good-bye.  JIM. 


278  ON  THE  WANE: 


XLV 

SHE 

(A  WEEK  LATER) 

April  id. 

I  SEND  back  your  letters  and  things  once 
more — it  is  better  to  get  it  over.  Return 
mine  or  burn  them  as  you  please.  Aunt 
Mary  cannot  stand  this  English  climate,  and 
we  start  almost  immediately  for  Italy;  prob- 
ably to  live  there  altogether.  I  think  it  will 
be  a  relief  to  you  to  know  this.  I  hope  with 
all  my  heart  that  you  will  soon  forget  the 
pain  I  have  given  you,  that  all  good  things 
may  come  to  you ;  and  one  day  I  hope  that 
you  will  marry  some  one  who  will  make  you 
happy,  and  love  you  as  I  did  long  ago  in  the 
dear  days  at  Hampstead.  Good-bye, 

GWEN. 


THE    END. 


UNHAPPY   LOVES 

OF 

MEN    OF    GENIUS. 

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before  not  strangers. — Evangelist,  N.  Y. 


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